No Kingdom For The Righteous
by MerryLittleMess
Summary: "This one's mine", the brigand growled, causing Aramis to shiver. The former musketeer wasn't afraid of death, but the hair on his neck bristled at the voice. He knew that man. - My take on season 4, finding d'Art and Aramis in trouble and featuring most of our beloved characters.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Hey guys!

I'm back with another story. This time it's set after S03E10, which means that there are **spoilers ahead**. It's an answer to a prompt by Deana, I hope she knows which one I'm talking about. ;D

 **Disclaimer** : Unfortunately, I don't own The Musketeers. All rights to BBC.

 **Trigger warnings** : Please expect depictions of graphic violence, swearing, torture and some very bad jokes.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter One**

When a professional musician falters on stage, the entire audience notices. It's not so much the individual discordant note but instead the broken harmony that causes everyone to look up sharply and snap out of their reverie. It's like a crack across a perfect stained-glass window, like a mistake in a flawless masterpiece of art, causing an indefinable restlessness and the indisputable sense that something is wrong.

Afflicted with the same feeling, Aramis looked around the room for the cause, the discordant note among the peaceful rustling of the womens' skirts, the clanking of china and the rumble of conversation within the Golden Crown Inn. The men, roughly one third of them his own selected guards and two thirds farmers, were eating and conversing loudly with each other as the sun gave way to stars and slightly chilly night air. Pleased, Aramis noted that although some men were deep in their cups, his men were not among them. So why was he still subduing a shiver as if someone had just walked over his grave?

"Papa? Are you sad?"

"No, Sire, I am quite happy to be here with you", Aramis answered, startled by the boy's perceptiveness while the young King's form of addressing his minister brought a warm smile to his lips. They had never told Louis about his true parentage, but either the boy suspected or it was a joke to him. And whatever the reason, Aramis had been loathe to discourage the practice and even Anne had admitted that it was endearing.

"Good", the King said, obviously satisfied with himself. Aramis watched his boy as he stuffed his round cheeks full of venison stew and continued to eat with the earnest conviction of a ten-year-old. After ruffling Louis' hair affectionately, Aramis turned his sharp gaze towards the door as d'Artagnan entered. Upon seeing the serious expression on the Gascon's face, Aramis subtly gripped the musket beneath his cloak. However, d'Artagnan only nodded at them, saying that the coast was clear while he turned around to preclude a cold wind from gaining entrance.

His optimistic assessment was immediately proven false when a dark shape appeared behind him, shoved him inside and leveled his weapon at the astonished Captain of the Musketeers. Among the screams and eruption of chaos around them, Aramis' gaze narrowed, zooming in on the assailant's finger that was tightening around the trigger of the weapon. Reflexively, d'Artagnan spun aside and just as reflexively, Aramis pulled out his own gun, supporting it against his hip. Then twin shots thundered through the enclosed space.

For a frozen moment in time, nothing seemed to move aside from the smoke that drafted lazily towards the ceiling. As soon as Aramis blinked, registering the ringing in his ears, the world exploded into motion again. Guards drew their weapons as suddenly the farmers followed suit and brandished knives, daggers and sabers at them.

"Ambush!", somebody yelled and Aramis was not surprised that he recognized Constance's voice. He pulled his own rapier, a shiny ornamental thing with glittering rubies set into the hilt but no less deadly than his old one. Everything in him ached to jump into the fray, search out his brother that had been lost in the roiling chaos next to the door and to begin the fight. Fight, protect, engage, win, his blood sang, warring against his cool head and expertise, his duty to stay by his King's side.

"Sire, follow me!" Constance's pain echoed his own, but together with a new recruit named Percival, they parted the mob like the sea before them until they reached the doorway to the stairs that led to the rooms of the Inn, all the while keeping the King close. The four of them pressed themselves into the shadows, breathing hard and, in the King's case, sniveling quietly.

"What do we do?", Constance asked, her own blade not wavering although her eyes kept darting across the angry faces in search of her husband. Even while Aramis surveyed the fight with the grim experience of a soldier, they heard multiple footsteps above them. Coming down, whereas innocent guests would rather hide, Aramis judged and pulled the woman and the child aside to meet the new threat.

A heavy weight settled in his stomach as he estimated that no less than another dozen men trampled down the worn wooden stairs. Aramis dashed forwards to meet them in an attempt to block their way into the spacious hallway. Bottlenecked like this they couldn't attack him with more than two men at a time. However, they also had the high ground by default and therefore made him sweat a bit as the fighting began.

I'm rusty, Aramis thought with something akin to gallows humor, while he parried a brutal downward thrust that was aimed at his head. Behind him the screeching of metal on metal told him that their nice little hideout had been discovered by the bandits in the room, too. Thank God Constance could hold her own, Aramis thought, focusing on his own battle. As a minister he no longer carried a main gauche and thus had to fight off both opponents with a single blade. Deciding to get creative, Aramis lashed out with his foot and caught the ruffian on the left. Knees bent in the wrong direction, the man fell, freeing up another rapier for Aramis, which he mercilessly used to slice across the man's throat before engaging the rest of them.

He didn't have a lot of room for footwork, but neither did his opponents, which were even more hampered by the low ceiling above the stairs. Aramis exploited that fact by swinging more widely than he would normally do and lunging forward as quickly as a striking cobra. His thrust, diagonal to the staircase, left one stumbling ungracefully and the other one shish-kebabbed on his bejeweled rapier.

Another flurry of fast strikes had the men backing up and Aramis smirk at them. He knew that with blood spattered over his blue-and-gold uniform he must be a sight to behold and if his devilish behavior made them question their wayward lifestyle, that could only work in his favor. The bandits, which he could now see in all their number as he stood at the foot of the stairs, did look less eager to come downstairs than minutes before.

"Merde!" Aramis realized his own mistake in the same instance as one of the opponents did: he'd overextended himself and by backing the men up the stairs where he was no longer protected by the curve of the ceiling. He'd made himself a target. Propelling himself off his front foot, Aramis catapulted himself backwards, but he wasn't quite fast enough to escape the thrown dagger that grazed his prominent shoulder, making him drop his rapier in pain.

Aramis hissed, pivoted a hundred and eighty degrees and thrust forward with the weapon in his left hand. The overzealous bandit that had followed him with a confident snarl went down to Aramis renewed attack. Even with his left, the former musketeer was a force to be reckoned with.

Apparently, this had gone unnoticed by next in line, one of the few masked brigands, who now shoved himself through the mass in order to advance on Aramis. His stance was perfect, Aramis noticed with growing dread as he was forced to retreat step after step, only barely keeping hold of his sword through the onslaught. His shoulder sent burning stabbing sensations through his body, but Aramis prevailed with gritted teeth, thinking of his son and of France.

When his back met Percival's back, Aramis glanced behind him and saw that they were surrounded by foes. A single small door was set into the wall next to the two of them. It led to a storage closet as far as Aramis remembered from the preliminary search he'd conducted earlier. Constance must have pulled the King out of danger, Aramis surmised, thanking God for the small mercies.

Now if they could only get rid of the rest of the bandits…

The masked man drew a small dagger, adding another weapon and prompting Aramis to sigh. He'd been busy already avoiding the rapier. Blocking a thrust towards his injury, Aramis retaliated with a mean side-thrust, which was turned aside expertly. Meanwhile, the dagger was whooshing close from the other side, aimed up. Aramis put his weight on his front foot, got close and swung his sword downwards with all his might, nicking the wrist of the assailant, who dropped the dagger but kept the pressure on the musketeer with another sword strike directed at his upper body. The minister went to parry it when he suddenly crumpled to the floor, his feet swept out from under him in a sneaky move he had himself been taught by Porthos once upon a time.

In a duel, Aramis would have happily yielded to his better, but this was no duel. Harsh reality caused his vision to darken for a moment when the pain of the impact hit. At the same moment he saw a blade protrude from Percival's back. The young man didn't even scream, he simply fell over Aramis hips, his weight holding the shocked man down for a crucial moment. When a vicious yet effective kick against his hand relieved him of his last weapon, Aramis knew it was over.

Half his mind recited a last prayer while the other part was just glad his and Percival's bodies were obstructing the entrance to the supply closet. Every second they couldn't get inside was a second his son was still among the living, Aramis decided, breathing shallowly through the pain. His eyes lingered on the master swordsman, for no lesser man could have felled him, daring the man to resolve the situation. What are you waiting for, you bastard?

"Get rid of'im and gemme that King", a man in the back ordered, his gravelly voice entirely too gleeful. Aramis didn't close his eyes in anticipation of death, so he was fully aware to witness the swordsman easily knock aside one of the brigand's sabers.

"This one's mine", the man said, causing Aramis to shiver. The former musketeer wasn't frightened, but the hair on his neck bristled at the voice. He knew that man. Knew him so intimately that a single sentence uttered through a mask was enough to identify him. Yet it couldn't be true. Calloused hands reached for him, but Aramis was so focused on the hands themselves that he hardly felt them or the pain of his wound as he was efficiently bound with rope and pulled to his feet.

Aramis subconsciously flexed the hands that were confined behind his back, fervently wishing he could reach out and rip off that ridiculous black cloth mask. His brain played catch-up, thinking in an endless, uncomprehending loop: I know you, I must be going mad, but I know you, I know you, I do. His mind was violently wrenched back into the present as the men snickered, brazen enough to mutter things like "Killim already!" and "Got yourself a pet, didya?".

The man didn't reply, instead he roughly pushed Aramis against the wall away from the closet door. His face was forced against the dirty stone, creating a few abrasions in the process. While some other men carelessly kicked Percival's body aside Aramis gathered his wits enough to debate fighting his captor, but he soon decided against it as he felt the firm grip on his bound hands and his neck. He was going nowhere anytime soon, thus he could only watch on helplessly as the men opened the door to expose… empty air. A few brooms and a mop clattered to the floor, but Madame d'Artagnan and the King were gone.

As a gust of wind rushed through the small window that had allowed the two of them to escape, Aramis finally felt like he could breathe again even though twenty gazes of hatred were now levelled at him. The fingers on the back of his neck tightened nearly imperceptibly, betraying the otherwise stoic swordsman. Anger at the failed mission? Contempt?

Aramis tensed, squirming to get a better look at the assembled men. His eyes widened as the bandit passed his captive to the man standing next to him and stripped off his mask. Wavy dark brown hair tumbled out beneath the cloth, shorter than Aramis remembered. The beard, the lips with the slight scar at the upper lip, the paleness and the knowing blue-green gaze were still the same, though.

"Athos", Aramis rasped, his heart stuttering and breaking at the same time while the man he'd once called brother observed him dispassionately. Before Aramis could even begin to recover from his shock, Athos picked up his main gauche, elegantly flipped it and used the handle to hit Aramis over the head with it.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Hello again! This is me, being very impressed with you guys.

at **Jmp** : Thank you for your review! And yep, you heard right. Athos on the dark side... Read on to find out more!

at **Lyne** : Thanks so much for the compliments! I did hope to catch the reader's attention by posing those questions, so I'm glad that worked.

at **Modocal** : Okay. Your wish is my command, I shall continue ;) And thanks for the review!

at **Guest** : Yay, this is exactly the reaction I wanted to cause! Thank you for the feedback!

I had originally planned not to write during my skiing vacation, but your numerous replies convinced me otherwise. I guess I'm just malleable that way ;) Nevertheless, I need to warn you that updates will most likely be irregular.

Enough with the bad news now. Happy New Year! Here's chapter 2.

* * *

 **Chapter 2**

Can't move. Locked… somehow. Can't move yet I'm moving. Am I? Am I shaking? God, my head. What happened? Why can't I move? And… why can't I see? Am I blind? What use is there for a blind musketeer?

Suffice it to say waking up was not a pleasant experience for Aramis. His mind came back in pieces, slowly crawling out of the pit of unconsciousness. Long before the memories of what the heck had happened rearranged themselves in a useful order, Aramis knew he was in deep shit. His arms were locked at his sides, his whole upper body somehow kept immobile while his legs were spread over something. Tied there, held fast. He was sweating, too warm, couldn't breathe properly. His shoulder, on fire.

And then there was the disorienting fact that he was unable to see. Like the pitch blackness of hell, not even shapes were visible when he blinked, dizzily trying to make sense of the surroundings that weren't there. Another insufficient and warm breath of air. Clenching his fists. Being glad that he could at least move his fingers and head. Listening. Feeling. Smelling. Help me, I'm blind.

The panic he'd been shoving down determinedly was breaking out of its finely constructed cage. Aramis first began to tremble, then struggle. He needed to move, to breathe, God, he needed to see. More and more frantic energy pulsed through his system as any coordination and thought was overruled by raw fear. It was terrifying, choking him.

"Shhh. Calm down." Although the voice meant to soothe him, its closeness and the memories it brought raining down on Aramis' aching head achieved the opposite. His fighting became even more erratic and forceful so that he was in danger of falling. Fall where? Downhill or into oblivion perhaps, his wildly pumping heart suggested.

"Aramis, stop!" The command was sharp this time and an intrinsic part of him obeyed instantly. While a steady arm around his chest held him close, Aramis tried to slow down his breathing. He was a goddamn musketeer, for pity's sake.

"That's it. Good boy." The voice was right. Training was kicking in and as soon as he no longer felt like drowning, things began to fall into place. It had been the warmth beneath him and the familiar rhythm that finally tipped Aramis off that he was indeed moving and not going crazy. His legs were tied to a horse's stirrups. He was riding. And if the sounds around him were anything to go by, he was far from alone.

Wind brushed against them like leaves while hooves stamped over hard packed dirt, a twig snapped beneath a horseshoe and men howled like wolves. The brigands, no doubt. And his dear brother Athos was riding with them. Exhaustion had prompted Aramis to lay his head against the supporting cool shoulders behind him, but after a few moments he righted himself, acutely aware of his situation.

"I'm not your boy", Aramis hissed. The man behind him snorted quietly, disbelieving. Aramis could almost imagine the tiny curl of the lips that went with it.

"I do believe I just saved your life", Athos' dry voice reminded him. The arm around him – Athos' arm – gave him slightly more room, but not enough to try anything. And even if Aramis had been able to concentrate long enough to form more than two coherent sentences, what was he going to do, trussed up as he was? They were certainly cautious, Aramis had to give them that.

Them. Athos. He still couldn't wrap his mind around that bit of information. Athos, his brother, moody, brooding, too noble for his own good Athos was a fucking brigand. And he'd tried to assassinate Aramis' own son. Anger and frustration bubbled up inside him the more he became aware of what was going on around the two of them. Still, he kept the darker emotions firmly in place. After all, screaming and shouting had never worked with Athos.

"Maybe you did", Aramis conceded, instead aiming for level-headed conversation as much as that was possible while one was being kidnapped by enemy forces and one's close friend. His voice caved in as his chest suddenly felt hollow, knowing he had to admit an even greater vulnerability if he wanted confirmation of what his body could only suspect.

"Athos, please tell me you didn't hit me in the eye." Sensing his brother's confusion, Aramis elaborated through clenched teeth. "Am I blind, Athos?"

"No." The arm gripped him tighter for a heartbeat in a twisted parody of a hug, "You're simply blindfolded."

"Which you are not sorry about", Aramis added, a little more cock-sure since his theory regarding his sight had been affirmed.

"No." Fantastic. Apparently Athos was back to his usual taciturn ways.

"Come on, talk to me. It's not like we can do much else, you playing the bossy dark villain and me being the shackled damsel in distress. What's with this straitjacket anyway?"

"Be quiet." They had been keeping their conversation to as low a tone as possible, but now Aramis no longer felt like hiding and had gradually increased the volume until he was talking normally. And he wasn't about to be stopped by Athos' stern reproach either.

"No, really, I want..."

"Aramis, shut up", Athos said, the urge in his voice enough to silence his impertinent hostage for now. Unfortunately, it seemed as if the damage was already done: Aramis heard the creaking of a saddle and the heavy breathing of another horse as a rider pulled up next to them. Rancid breath washed over him as he was roughly taken hold of by his hair and shaken like a disobedient puppy.

"Cannow keepya pet inline, canya?" Even though Aramis felt the sudden childish urge to bite the hand that was now patting his cheeks in a degrading manner, he restrained himself as he felt Athos tense at his back. Also, the smell the wafted from those foul fingers was quite the deterrent.

Athos didn't dignify the inquiry with an answer. After an awkward pause during with Athos subtly sped up the gait of his horse so that the stranger's mitts were shaken loose, the man smacked his lips. "Boss says no noise."

"Alright, Gul, I shall entreat my passenger for compliance and reticence", Athos assured the bandit. The difference between the two was palpable even to a blind man. Whereas Gul obviously had trouble to direct his horse, Athos' own steed reacted to any tiny movements of its master. Then there was the smell, Athos' subtle scent of pine needles, leather, sweat and yes, wine, was contrasted by the nasty odor of… Aramis did not want to think about what kind of odor that was. Finally, Athos' precise wording didn't mix with Gul's countryside accent.

Seems it could always be worse, Aramis thought ironically, I might be heading to an unknown location to be killed or tortured or who knows what, but I could also be riding with that dimwit. I guess I should be happy with the status quo.

"Boss says gag'im." Gagim? Aramis needed a moment to translate, yet the meaning became clear instantly as Athos' hand brushed against Aramis' thigh as the swordsman reached for something in his saddlebags.

"No, that's really not necess...", Aramis started only to be cut off by a piece of cloth wedging between his lips. That's what I get for jinxing it, Aramis recapitulated, silent now while Gul cackled and turned his horse back to the pack. Mercifully, Athos didn't comment, although he could basically feel the 'I told you so' hovering between them.

They rode for a long while and the monotony of the sounds, the motion and the ever present pain in his head and shoulders caused Aramis to sink into a stupor until somebody in front of them cursed. "Riders!"

Expeditiously, Athos pushed his captive down over the horse's neck before he settled what felt like a large hood over Aramis' head. So he wasn't wearing a straitjacket but a coat wound tightly around his body, he realized while he readied himself for action. Whoever was coming this way, they might be his only chance to find assistance and escape.

"Don't even think about it", Athos murmured, bending low himself to whisper into Aramis' ear. "The moment they discover you they're dead men walking."

He straightened as the newcomers, ostensibly only a pair of horses, hailed them. Aramis took a deep breath, considering. What to do? Risk it? Acting or staying quiet, they both had their drawbacks. It was probably true what Athos had said, he might very well be signing the strangers' death warrant by calling out. However, he might also seal his own fate by abstaining. The paramount question in all his calculations of course was whether he could trust Athos at all. Right now, the only definite answer Aramis could come up with was a cold dead negative. Athos was lost to him.

"What's wrong with that fellow?", a croaky voice wanted to know. Aramis felt the tension around him rise to new heights, knowing he was being addressed.

"My brother's badly sick. Better not come close", Athos informed the rider, seemingly unconcerned. Aramis gave in to his gut feeling despite knowing better, coughed lightly and moaned beneath his gag.

"Ugh. Let us be away before we catch anything, father", said a female, nasal voice. Her companion obviously agreed because soon they were out of earshot. The bandits around them huffed and made silly jokes, praising themselves for their theatrics. Aramis groaned inwardly.

Soon thereafter, the group headed into the trees in order to make camp. While the sounds of unpacking and caring for the horses rose around them, Aramis quickly estimated that between the ambush and the ride, it had to be dusk. Eventually, Athos pulled his captive down to the ground, careful of Aramis injuries. If he'd been able to, Aramis would have made a sarcastic remark along the lines of villainous mother henning. His imaginary words got stuck in his throat, however, when Athos sat him down against a tree, secured him there and then took off the offending blindfold.

The little light that originated from the beginnings of a campfire in the center of the clearing made tears stream down Aramis face due to its brightness after multiple hours of darkness. Once his eyes adjusted, he saw that there were about a score of men left. Still, that didn't make his weary heart skip a beat. It was the figure on the other side of the camp side that captivated Aramis' attention. Being manhandled and fighting all the way was none other than d'Artagnan.

What the hell? Aramis turned his accusing gaze to Athos, who was currently tying off the last knots on Aramis' restraints. Furious, the minister kicked out at him with enough force to rock Athos back on his heels where he was crouching. Yet Athos didn't answer any of the questions that were burning in Aramis' dark brown eyes. Instead, the man calmly exposed the cut on Aramis shoulder to the night. Most of the blood had already dried so that there was only a small trickle of red winding down the marksman's back.

"It's a clean cut. Not much risk of infection", Athos informed him, seemingly completely focused on the wound. He can't look me in the eyes, can he? Aramis felt a bitter satisfaction at the thought. Behind them the men surrounding d'Artagnan had gotten louder, cursing at the young man's resistance.

"Fine!", the man Aramis vaguely remembered being the ringleader at the Inn shouted, which caused all of all his followers to flock towards him except Athos who didn't even look up from his work.

"The Capt'n of them Musketeers", the title was spat like a vile curse, "clearly doesn'a wanna sittown, so let's have ourselves some sport, says I!"

This announcement was met by a roar of approval from the bandits. A lot of hands reached for the bound form of d'Artagnan, whose spirited struggles were useless against their number. Aramis groaned, trying desperately to form words while his eyes were pleading with Athos. Do something, damn you! This is your little brother they're talking about. Do you not care? But Athos only sighed nearly soundlessly, shrugged and turned away.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter** **3**

It's odd, the things you remember when you are not distracted by visual input but are suddenly overwhelmed with other hostile sensory information. As d'Artagnan - still blindfolded and with his hands bound behind his back - was violently pushed to the dirty ground, his mind seemed to fracture for a moment as his body slid across the sharp stones and cold earth beneath him before it came to an aching halt.

* * *

 _Aramis is never going to let me forget this, d'Artagnan thought in a mostly annoyed manner as he was ushered into the Inn at gunpoint. The brigand stared hatefully at him, obviously displeased that his victim wasn't cowering in fear. Hard luck for you mate, d'Artagnan thought and grinned, then ducked away._

 _His unconcerned manner was mainly a result of knowing exactly what his brother behind him was planning. Even now that they were no longer officially Musketeers, d'Artagnan trusted Aramis to the world's end and back. So when twin shots barked like mighty battle hounds, one of them right next to him, he dove for cover armed with the certainty that the intruder had been taken care of._

 _Sliding against one of the fully occupied tables, d'Artagnan tipped his hat to the four farmers who seemed content to simply sit there while the Inn descended into chaos._

 _"Danger is passed, no need to panic", d'Artagnan tried to reassure the men that were belatedly also getting up._

 _"Notta brightest candle onna cake, isse?", the oldest farmer said and drew a long serrated knife out of the folds of his tunic. As fast as d'Artagnan might have reacted, he didn't stand a chance of getting up in time or to pull his own rapier from its sheath before the knife lingered against the skin of his neck. Now Aramis really is never going to let this disaster go, let alone refrain from reminding my cadets, d'Artagnan groaned inwardly while he graciously surrendered and was rather ungraciously divested of his weapons._

* * *

 _Athos was back! Happiness and relief were overwhelming until a heartbeat later a whole group of bandits emerged with the limp form of Aramis carried between them. A fact Athos didn't seem to disagree with. Instead, his old mentor nonchalantly greeted the man that was currently threatening d'Artagnan's life and ignored his former comrade in arms completely._

 _The whole situation was so surreal that d'Artagnan didn't even protest. That detached sentiment vanished immediately when they angled the knife to cut his throat._

 _"Hey!", d'Artagnan shouted, bucking against the arms that were holding him. His heart beat like a drum, sweat sliding down his neck. After all the adventures he'd had, this couldn't be the end. Not in a barn somewhere in the middle of nowhere. And not before finding out what had happened to Constance, not before knowing what had made Athos turn rogue._

 _"What do you think you're doing?" Athos seemed to agree, pivoting on his heels and marching back to his little brother's would be murderer. "Do you want to incur our benefactor's wrath by disposing of this cretin prematurely?"_

 _"We're s'posed ta bring them King, not them Cap'n", the old man argued glumly. Going up against Athos in verbal sparring? Oh boy, d'Artagnan thought, under different circumstances this would be very entertaining. With his head bent backward to escape the evilly blinking blade however, his appreciation for the enlightening conversation was limited._

 _"Yes, but as the Captain of the Musketeers, young d'Artagnan here", Athos looked at him condescendingly, "is informed about matters such as the guard rotation on the grounds of the Palace, the King's and Queen's schedule and so much more. It would be a waste to kill him right now."_

 _"Ya pet knows anough. Let's kill'em spare!" Eagerly, the farmer stepped even closer to d'Artagnan who looked at the ceiling in silent prayer - and in order to hide his growing anger and frustration. In contrast, Athos was the perfect picture of patience._

 _"Ah, but what happens if my guest prefers to cloak himself in secrecy? And suppose he dies during the subsequent interrogation, what then, dear Milland? Our benefactor might ask himself why there wasn't a spare prisoner."_

 _"Hrmpf."_

 _At that point Athos didn't waste any more time. He fixated the murderous farmer with his infallible stern teacher glare until the man nodded, albeit unhappily._

 _"Good."_

 _The swordsman glanced at d'Artagnan once and the younger man tried desperately to glean the truth from those unreadable blue eyes. But if there was a message hidden in those cold depths, d'Artagnan could not find it in so short a time._

* * *

 _Like the moon around the earth, d'Artagnan's thoughts circulated around the ever same questions. Where was Constance? Was she alright? What about the King? Was he safe? Had they made it back? Was Aramis still alive? And perhaps the most tormenting question of them all: What is Athos doing?_

 _So pressing where his concerns that he hardly had any time to worry about himself. The Captain of the Musketeers knew that he should have been afraid or at least wondering where he was being taken. They had been riding hard, only stopping once within a thicket for an unknown reason. The journey had been long enough that d'Artagnan's arms were sore from being forced into the same unnatural position for hours. Yet the bonds around his arms, chafing as they were, hardly mattered to him. The blindfold was an inconvenience, true, as was the foul breath of the bandit that constantly caressed his neck._

 _None of it really got through to d'Artagnan, though. Even though he was being taken to an unknown enemy's lair, he felt entirely safe. Why? Because Athos was out there. And the former musketeer would always have their back._

* * *

d'Artagnan groaned and tried to even out his breathing after taking the impact mostly on his chest. Unwilling to present an open target, he rolled to his side and then onto his knees, surprised when they let him rise without interference. They did taunt him all the while, slurs against his parentage and upbringing as well as his pitiful skills as a musketeer.

Needless to say, the insults hit their target as often as a Red Guard musket shot, not even coming close to making an impact. d'Artagnan wasn't an insecure youth out to prove himself any longer and thus wasn't baited into a reckless response. The bandits soon got the message and resorted to physical action again. And even though d'Artagnan had positioned himself in a loose fighting stance as much as his bound form would allow, he was helpless to evade the attack because the men had surrounded him in a rough circle and were yelling loud enough to mask any giveaway sounds. Again he was roughly shoved, causing him to stumble on the uneven ground and before he could regain his balance another thrust sent him sprawling.

This time he bit his lip upon colliding with the floor and felt a trickle of blood run down his chin. It stung a little, but d'Artagnan was far from impressed. If this was their idea of having some fun he could deal with that and even better, he could give back at least some of what he got.

Having located one of them by listening carefully for the stamping feet, the musketeer employed a scything tackle from his position on the ground and pulled the man's legs out from under him. A loud "Oof!" informed d'Artagnan that he'd been successful and he grinned while the brigands hooted and jeered.

The game ground to a sudden halt when Milland, recognizable by the petulant pout in his voice, called out for some real bloody fun.

"Spare doesn'a need them fingers too much ta answer questions says I!"

Immediately, d'Artagnan straightened over protesting ribs. His ears, finely tuned after years of soldiering, detected the faint sound of a blade leaving its sheath and knew his tumble down the rabbit hole had just reached another dark corner. And just like the white rabbit his time was running out.

Tschink. Another knife, another direction. The hair on the back of his neck prickled. Rationally speaking, d'Artagnan knew he wouldn't be able to defend himself, but his pride wouldn't let him beg, so he simply spread his feet and lowered his upper body slightly in a defensive position.

"Stop."

It wasn't him that said it. d'Artagnan was proud of that. Although gnawing fear had its claws ripping at his guts, so far he'd been able to control the beast with a leash of pure anger. The surprise of hearing Athos' voice doused those burning pits of fury, only for d'Artagnan to discover that Athos' presence wasn't like water. It was like gasoline. What right? His mind shouted, what right does he have to interfere now after standing by for most of it? What right does he have to be the devil and the savior both?

Only now did d'Artagnan realize that somewhere along the line, his trust in his brother had been warped by his pent-up frustration and anxiety at the impossible scenario he'd found himself stuck in. He shuddered, his breathing picking up.

"Let me show you what passes for fun in my book", Athos drawled, the 'let me show you how it is done' shining through clearly. And even though the brigands muttered, d'Artagnan could hear them stepping back. Allowing Athos access.

Come and get me, brother, d'Artagnan thought. It was a plea no longer. Now it was a challenge.

The feeling of wanting to destroy something rose higher when Athos calmly, uninterestedly took off d'Artagnan's blindfold and allowed the younger man a look at camp and at the restrained form of the first minister of France, who was bound to a tree without any kind of deference for his office. Aramis was fighting against the rope that was holding him back and d'Artagnan didn't have to take a closer look to know how shredded the marksman's wrists had to be. Moreover, a bandage peeked out beneath a bloodied uniform. Trying to minimize the damage, d'Artagnan spared the minister a long glance, willing the man to settle before the bandits decided to extend their notion of fun to include Aramis, too.

Afterward, d'Artagnan fixed his indignant eyes solely on his mentor, disregarding the gawking lawless men. While he had been occupied with his observations, somebody had cut his arms free and the musketeer rubbed them as they tingled with the renewed blood flow.

"So you are still alive?", d'Artagnan asked, trying for the same cold impassivity that Athos seemed to ooze but coming up just short. Athos, who had obviously grasped the double meaning of the question, raised an eyebrow. An ever so slight curl of the lip indicated his amusement at being reminded of one of the first weeks of their acquaintance.

d'Artagnan was still wondering what was going to happen when Athos' fist came flying at his head. His response, hampered by astonishment and warring thoughts, was a split second too slow and d'Artagnan felt blood rush into his mouth as the inside of his cheek ruptured against his teeth. He staggered and managed to block a second punch, barely.

"Is that it?", Athos teased and advanced. The bandits, caught up in the violence, cheered for the former musketeer while d'Artagnan wanted to shout "What are you doing?" at the top of his lungs. Maybe he would have, if he'd have had enough air left.

In the following clash d'Artagnan tried not to be kept on the back foot, but with him being disoriented and distracted by his surroundings he didn't gain any ground. If he tried to retreat in order to catch his breath and collect his thoughts, the circle of men thrust him back into what was developing into a pit fight.

Athos grinned and most people would have called the expression exhilarated. To d'Artagnan it was nothing but a mask. What was he planning with…?

A mean kick at his kidneys brought d'Artagnan's thoughts back to the confrontation at hand. He'd been distracted and now felt the repercussions as pain spread like fire across his stomach. d'Artagnan gasped. It was abundantly clear that this was no simple sparring match, Athos not pulling his hits and aiming for all those painful places they avoided in training.

Means I have to adapt, he thought grimly and tried not to look at Athos' face as he started to fight back in earnest. All rational thought failed him as he relied on muscle memory to duck, evade and return the blows as they battled back and forth, nearly evenly matched. Both of them were quick, ruthless and scored a few glancing blows. Both of them would sport bruises when this was over.

In the end, it was hesitation that killed d'Artagnan. Athos had gotten a grip on d'Artagnan's left arm and instead of using the momentum to lunge at his mentor and bring them both down, d'Artagnan jerked is hands back in order to disengage. This gave Athos the chance to swirl d'Artagnan around like a dancing partner and pin him in a tight headlock so that d'Artagnan's back was pressed against Athos' chest.

Desperate for air, d'Artagnan curled into himself and used his right elbow to batter the swordsman's ribs and thereby put his weight completely on his right side. Right away, Athos recognized his advantage and put his hip forward, which he used as a lever to pull his pupil onto his destabilized left side and then over Athos' protruding hip and leg to propel d'Artagnan to the side and slightly backward into the air. As his feet left the ground, d'Artagnan only had time to curse viciously before he met the earth head on. Even though he rolled, his bones were rattled and his mind foggy.

Meanwhile, Athos laughed and dragged d'Artagnan a few steps through the dirt by his collar, much to the delight of the frenzied crowd. They only quieted down their sneering when the sounds of hoof beats reached them. Athos, his blue eyes again composed and illegible, dumped d'Artagnan against a tree far away from Aramis and efficiently shackled the Captain of the musketeers before he rose wordlessly to meet the newcomers.

d'Artagnan stared after him, unknowingly mirroring Aramis' accusing gaze. His thoughts were still jumbled, trying to find reasons for the pounding he'd just received at a brother's hands.

He saved you from being cut to pieces by the bandits, this was nothing but a show for their benefit, his fierce heart argued. But was the show really for the benefit of the brigands? Or was Athos making clear where he stood? As the pain from the fight slowly made itself known, d'Artagnan closed his eyes and tried to fight off his treacherous thoughts that were tenaciously eating up the trust between their brotherhood.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thanks a lot for the reviews and follows and favorites. You keep me motivated to keep writing every day!

at **Jmp** and **Debbie:** If Athos were working undercover... well that would make sense. Yet there are other logical theories out there... I won't tell whether your assumption is true of course, that would ruin the fun. But you're both right: it would be a brilliant performance and yep, Athos is definitely going to pay for what he did. Anyways, thanks for reviewing!

* * *

 **Chapter 4**

Athos didn't know how long he'd been standing there hidden in the shadows, eyes wide shut, just thinking about nothing and everything at once. And all the while a voice in the back of his head whispered 'You see this? This beautiful destruction? This is what you did. What you are capable of. This is all you'll ever be capable of. Beautiful destruction.'

However hard he tried to shrug off the melancholia and crushing guilt, it stayed by his side. His only constant companion since he'd left his family to join a band of rebels. 'Well', a dry voice that sounded remarkably like Aramis remarked in answer to his dark thoughts, 'Your real companions are right next door. But you seem reluctant to pay us a visit.'

And the imaginative Aramis was right, of course. He was wasting time. Stalling. This behavior was beneath him. There should've been no reason why he was hesitating before turning the last corner in the drafty, poorly lit stone corridor. Finally, he made his uncertain feet move.

The guard in front of the thick wooden door stood to attention as soon as he became aware of Athos' approach. A wide, trusting grin spread over the young mouth towards a scraggly reddish beard.

"Master Athos! Comta see them prisoners?"

"That is exactly what I'm doing, Farouk. Stand aside, please." Heavens, the boy was close to saluting him as he scrambled to pull out the key and open the shrieking door. Athos nodded at Farouk, keeping up the facade of indifference regarding his self-imposed task. Contrasting to the condescension he received from everyone else, Athos was always patient with the boy, mostly because he was grooming him to be an asset and also because a small part of him longed for friendship, even the false friendship he'd cultivated with the carrot farmer turned brigand. His efforts were now rewarded with repeated offers of help with whatever task Farouk supposed their boss had given Athos.

"No, I'm fine", Athos said. Calm, certain. Anything he didn't feel when looking at the slick steps downward. 'Come and face your failures', the mocking voice of d'Artagnan supplied in Athos' mind while the swordsman's black leather boots hollowly echoed through the building, announcing his arrival to those below.

It was different than Athos had expected. Of course he'd known there would be the tell tale signs of any dungeon: the tiny window set high into the wall, the dirty stone floor, metal bars cutting through the room. His eyebrows set into a hint of a frown at the cold and damp quality of the air, though, at the mold on the walls and the complete absence of straw on the floor or even the courtesy of a torch on the wall.

His own lantern was the only source of light and it let the dancing shadows grow deep and menacing and caused the prisoners to blink at him in owlishly. One prisoner, really.

The flame reflected in Aramis' dark eyes, flickering angrily whereas d'Artagnan's face was not illuminated by the weak glow. The Captain of the Musketeers hadn't stirred upon Athos' entrance and his head was still positioned in Aramis' lap, facing straight up. Aramis' fingers stroked the young man's head, a clear sign that d'Artagnan was asleep and most likely not well.

Destruction, beautiful destruction, the voices confirmed. Slowly and deliberately, Athos set down the lamp and his other burdens, then turned to face the cell with a platter of food held in his hands like an inadequate peace offering.

"I brought dinner", Athos stated the obvious, leaned down and pushed the food through beneath the bars.

Aramis' undyed linen shirt rustled quietly as he sat up straighter without disturbing their young one's dreams. He didn't make a move to retrieve the plate. Instead, the hand that Athos could see curled into a fist on top of d'Artagnan's hair as Aramis battled his anger. Apparently, he lost.

"Get out." Athos wasn't surprised at the reaction, he deserved the marksman's disdain after all he had done. That's why he ignored the command and added another bundle to the food on the floor.

"Bandages, clean water, alcohol for his wounds", he listed, striving for the calmness he usually found so easily within himself. But under Aramis' withering glare, his stoic nonchalance shriveled like a delicate plant in the desert.

"Get out!", Aramis shouted, clearly pushed over the threshold by Athos' belated kindness. His voice was so loud and raw that it caused d'Artagnan to shift and mumble in his sleep. Athos averted his eyes, fleeing from the fuming to the sleeping little brother, uncomfortable when the youth didn't wake. Was he sick? Had they hurt him too much? Had he hurt him beyond repair? Oh, who was he fooling? He had broken them from the start.

"I'm..."

"Don't you dare apologize", Aramis growled, a true cornered predator ready to rip Athos to shreds. He was protecting his lion cub, Athos knew and wasn't above using any advantage he could, so he sat directly in front of the metal that separated him from his brothers and began to unpack the supplies.

"I didn't come here to fight", he said and pointed at d'Artagnan's limp form. "He needs our help."

"My help you mean. You're on the other side of this", Aramis replied a little less belligerently and knocked against the bars for emphasis, thereby implying more than the physical boundary between them. Furthermore, the motion exposed the bleeding red bands around his wrists and Athos sighed inwardly, knowing he wouldn't be allowed to treat the injury. At least Aramis accepted the rag on the rim of the water bowl and began to carefully clean the cuts on d'Artagnan's cheek.

"Why?" For a few breaths Aramis had remained silent and Athos had been content to watch him take care of their youngest brother, until the Spaniard's question cut through the thin veneer of brotherhood. "Why did you not interfere? You should've stopped them."

"The ambush would have happened with or without me. The difference being that the two of you are alive right now." Athos chose to answer the question in a bigger context than it was posed in and was rewarded with a fake annoyed look before Aramis seemed to remember that they were no longer friends and returned to his serious, accusing expression. Like Athos, Aramis knew the defense was hollow.

"You know I didn't mean the altercation at the Inn, although we're not done with that topic", Aramis said, managing to let the sentence sound like a vague threat. "I was talking about using him – your sworn brother – for the nightly entertainment of your new comrades."

"Better to allow them their games than waiting until one of them really hurt you", Athos said, hating himself for speaking it out loud. It sounded callous, this strategy of survival. And judging from the way Aramis whole body went rigid, it had been far from the right thing to say, if such a thing even existed anymore.

"Really hurt one of us?", Aramis repeated incredulously, "Look at him! Does he look unhurt to you?"

"No", Athos admitted, raking a hand through his hair. He would have loved to get up and pace, but that would have been rubbing his own freedom into his brother's face, so he stayed where he was, praying for calmness. Stasis in mind and body. Unreachable right now, it seemed.

"It was either you or him. He could take it, you couldn't. He'll heal."

"It should have been me!", Aramis called out, breaking open like a seashell upon hitting rocks in the surf. His whole frame was trembling lightly and Athos reached out on instinct but aborted the movement before anyone could notice. The last thing the Spaniard needed right now was Athos' attempt at providing solace.

"Hell, it should have been neither of us! What have you done to us, Athos?"

Athos didn't have an answer for that. How to explain his maneuvering over the last months, his carefully laid plans, his grand schemes that had been washed away like sand castles? And even if he wanted desperately to try and make them understand, he couldn't. His gaze strayed to the stairs where the chances were high that Farouk was lingering and listening to every word of their strained reunion.

"Get out."

"No."

With a huff of irritation Aramis continued his ministrations. The silence build between them, higher and thicker with each added second. Mercifully, d'Artagnan chose that moment to come around, stretching with a suppressed groan before he assessed the situation. Warm brown eyes peeked out from the swelling on the left side of his face, fist recognizing Aramis above him and then giving Athos a once-over. A smirk darted across d'Artagnan's face and Athos could guess what the wild musketeer was grinning at.

He'd looked in the mirror and knew he bore a dark bruise at his jaw and multiple scratches on his face from their scuffle the other night. And those were only the consequences d'Artagnan could see. But if I still feel them with every breath, how much must he be hurting? Worried, Athos tried to survey the damage, only to be blocked by Aramis who was shielding the Captain. Attentive as ever, d'Artagnan swatted the hands away and sat up, although the motion clearly caused him pain. He panted, leaned gratefully against Aramis and hid his white face against the wall before grinning at Athos once he found his balance.

"I'm completely fine."

"Right", Athos replied noncommittally. As much as Aramis' anger had been anticipated, d'Artagnan's easy mannerisms were revelation to the swordsman. He couldn't already be forgiven for his transgressions, although d'Artagnan's sincere smile certainly suggested otherwise.

"You were right to do what you did. Aramis had a concussion. And one row in the dirt and his knife wound would've gotten infected. That's the truth of the matter and you know it", d'Artagnan elaborated, sending the last bit in Aramis' direction. The First Minister shook his head.

"Let me see your ribs", he said, obviously unwilling to discuss the issue in front of Athos. d'Artagnan grabbed the hem of his own too thin shirt before Aramis could lift it.

"Show me yours and I'll show you mine?" At which the marksman couldn't help but grin, reminded of countless scenes just like this one.

"Fine. But you first."

"Alright", d'Artagnan conceded, muttering something about how Aramis always wanted to get him undressed. The Captain of the Musketeers seemed determined not to address the fact that they were locked in a dungeon and forcibly tore at the gloomy mood. His winces of pain while Aramis poked and prodded negated some of his efforts, though. Athos especially felt every blue blooming bruise as if it were his own. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. But he didn't dare say it.

"We haven't found the King", he told them instead, glad when some of the tension uncoiled around the two men. "They got away clean. Well, Constance stole two of our horses and knocked out a guard, but you know..."

"Needs must", d'Artagnan commented, the grin back in full force. Aramis, on the other hand, still looked like he wanted to murder Athos and the man couldn't even blame him for that wish.

"What about my men?", Aramis asked snidely and Athos saw d'Artagnan tense next to him. Athos clenched his teeth, guilt again washing over him, but he made himself answer honestly.

"Some of them are still alive. Most of them didn't make it."

"My recruits?", d'Artagnan's voice was stony now.

"Percival is dead", Aramis informed him with a squeeze on the shoulder. "I'm sorry, brother."

"Cotillard?"

"I don't know", Athos admitted shamefully. He'd been so occupied with saving his two brothers that he hadn't inquired into the fate of the other musketeers. Resuming to do so as soon as possible, Athos rose. Staying here would only bring them all pain for now.

"Is that safe to eat?", d'Artagnan suddenly inquired and pointed at the meal. Athos halted and nodded curtly. It was only stew and a piece of bread, enough for one person but hardly for two. In fact, it was a portion meant for one man, his own ration that he'd repurposed when he realized nobody could be bothered to cook for their prisoners.

"Thank you", d'Artagnan called after him and strangely enough, those two words were even worse that the visual confirmation of how much pain he'd caused his friends. Because those two words implied that Athos had done something worthy of praise when all he'd done was condemn his brothers to an almost certain death.

If you knew everything that was to come, he wondered on his way back up the stairs, would you still thank me?


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:**

at **Debbie** : Thanks for taking the time to read and review! And you make a very good argument with your assessment of Athos' character. Either way his conscience will not be clean... Also, thank you for the lovely compliment. :)

* * *

 **Chapter 5**

Very few people could scream and rage at Her Majesty the Queen Regent of France without being beheaded. Thankfully, Constance was one of those people or else she would have been beheaded days ago. After the ambush and the hectic, worry-filled flight home her nerves had been frayed but she'd nevertheless marched right into the throne room, King in tow.

And as luck would have it Anne was still there and mostly alone. A single look at the disheveled King and the Fury at his side had caused her to dismiss the remnants of her court, which had fled all too willingly. Cowards, Constance seethed, let go of the King's sweaty palm and approached her longtime friend without hesitation.

"Your Majesty, there has been an ambush on the road to Toulouse. The First Minister and my husband have been taken hostage!" Perhaps she'd spent too much time around d'Artagnan, but her patience for politesse and dumbasses had evaporated. A stab of sympathy wound its way past her defenses as she saw how the news hit home. And they hit hard. Anne paled, her slender fingers covering her mouth in shock.

Months ago, before she'd become a musketeer herself, Constance would have reached out to offer her support. Now she placed a hand on her hip and barely refrained from tapping her foot in a display of impatience.

"Your Majesty, my King", she glanced at the upset boy, "Please allow me to mount a rescue mission. I saw the direction in which they were being taken..."

This time the Queen reached out and caught Constance's hands in her own. Her blue eyes beneath the golden tiara were full of compassion but also hardened by the trials she'd overcome.

"No, Constance. They have a multiple hours head start already. The roads are dry, so there'll be no clear path to follow. You'll run yourself ragged before you find them."

"I need to…!"

"You need to sleep, as needs my son. We will reconvene in the morning."

"But Your Majesty..." Although she was a woman and, if you believed what people thought, therefore a slave to her own emotions, Constance knew there was no chance she'd win the argument. A look into the Queen's troubled expression showed that they both understood that they were caught between a rock and a hard place, neither willing to outsource the task of finding their lovers but unable to search for them themselves.

It will be different tomorrow, Constance reassured herself. I can do this.

And she'd certainly tried. She'd been back at Court early, but without any clues to follow, they could only examine the Inn and bring back their dead. Constance busied herself with looking after their injured recruit Cotillard and interrogated every incoming noble and peasant. Even though most of the nobility frowned upon the practice, Anne allowed her to continue, as desperate for answers as the Lady Musketeer.

Finally, on the third day a father-daughter pair of merchants told stories about meeting a band of men on the road not too far away from the Golden Crown Inn. They'd been carrying a disguised man. Riding double, holding him close. Some of the mens' clothes had been marred with blood.

"It's them! It has to be. Even if Monsieur Fleurice didn't see both hostages. Please, Your Majesty. I can marshal a force of Musketeers in less than an hour..." On her second try Constance, cunning as she was, addressed not the mother but the boy. After all, Louis had lost his replacement father, too. And the King rose before any of his advisors could subtly detain him.

"We have decided! Madame d'Artagnan, we allow you to pursue the evil… the lawless men. And if you find them, you'll bring me their heads!", he cried, his young voice filling the room. A few of the assembled nobles gasped at the implied brutality and Constance bit her lip ever so slightly, caught between surprise and disgust at the sickening prospect. Anne leaned close to her son, asking him quietly so that only Constance on her position right in front of them could hear it what he'd been thinking.

"I just thought it was a fetching thing for a King to say...", Louis admitted guiltily. "Was it not a good idea?"

* * *

Somewhere during the quiet loneliness of night, the rattling of the chains against the far wall had transformed into an eerily pleasant melody. It resonated though the air akin to bewitched wind chimes. Or at least Aramis liked to think so. He'd been listening to it ever since d'Artagnan fell into an exhausted sleep right atop Aramis' chest and left the marksman alone with his bleak thoughts.

Aramis didn't mind, in fact the warmth of his brother helped ward off the cool breeze that coursed through their cell. And he still had the melody to keep him company. It sounded almost as if a ghostly musician moved the metal links, his invisible hands reaching and releasing to a comforting rhythm only the dead could know…

He must have drifted off, because the next thing he remembered was waking up to the twittering of a lovesick chickadee on the windowsill. The breeze had quieted down and the first rays of sunshine strayed through the tiny opening above them. Aramis sighed, disappointed that all this hadn't been a nightmare or, he mused grimly, that the nightmare was indeed very real.

d'Artagnan, who was rousing as well, apparently had less somber thoughts. "Morning", he greeted sleepily as if nothing were wrong. When Aramis didn't reply the younger man used the time in order to stretch thoroughly, hands extended above his head.

"What happened to your shackles?", Aramis asked in disbelief. He would never admit it to anyone, but his mouth dropped open a little. After all, he was a hundred percent sure that when d'Artagnan had fallen asleep, he'd still had his hands bound in front of him by iron manacles. They were certainly gone now.

"It's a gift", d'Artagnan answered and allowed himself a lazy Cheshire cat grin. Aramis would have liked to hit him over the head for his smugness amidst the wreckage but had to admit that it was true. The youth had taken to Porthos' shady teachings like one born to it. And after years of training and prank wars with him once the lessons were completed, slippery didn't begin to cover d'Artagnan's skills.

"If you have been free all that time, Master Magician", Aramis dipped his non-existent hat in deference, "Why are we still here?"

"Lock's too big, there's nothing to pick it with."

"The one on the door?"

"That's the one."

"Shame." Aramis glanced at the ugly thing mournfully. It was unfair, but then again, what had he been hoping for? Life throws us curveballs all the time. This one was just a bit more lethal than usual. "Speaking of bad things that are happening to us, I think I hear footsteps. Better reacquaint yourself with those handcuffs, Merlin."

"Spoilsport." Although d'Artagnan teased freely, he complied as quickly as his battered body would allow, which unfortunately wasn't all that fast. Thus, Aramis had to block his brother from sight while three men entered, one of them Athos.

"All done, Morgana", d'Artagnan whispered behind him, prompting Aramis to smirk until they saw how grave Athos' expression was. Not here to offer us breakfast then, Aramis thought and stepped out of the cell cautiously once it was opened. Immediately, he was taken hold of by his old-friend-now-enemy who escorted him up the stairs wordlessly with d'Artagnan following sandwiched between his own guardians.

"It's Sylvie, right? They have her somewhere", Aramis quietly wanted to know while he allowed himself to be herded through the forlorn decrepit building as if he were a sheep on his way to slaughter. Which of course he wasn't. He was a wolf in sheep's clothing, they just didn't know it yet.

"Sylvie's fine", Athos replied grimly and hence took some of the wind out of Aramis' sails. With Athos' loyalties still uncertain, who knew which one of them was the sheep?

In front of him, the barren corridor opened into a huge hall. Once upon a time it must have been very fancy, because Aramis could still see the residue of rich colors on the walls. Some half-rotten silk curtains obstructed the view through the hole in the wall that had lead to a balcony before the owners had let their mansion turn into a haunted house.

Nowadays, the room was obviously used as some kind of audience chamber: uneven wooden benches lined the sides of the room, most of them occupied. Aramis counted and swallowed his discomfort. Perhaps thirty men and a few women, none of them elegantly dressed or groomed like Athos, yet their hungry stares were even more unsettling than the bickering nobles at home in Anne's court.

But he made no mistake: even without the gold and glitter, this was a throne room. There was a castle. A Great Hall. A court of rag pickers and scarecrows. And a bandit King, from the looks of it.

The man was the only one wearing fine leather boots and a gleaming rapier at his side – Aramis' own weapon. The clean black bun at the base of the neck matched a meticulously clean face beset with thin brown eyebrows, a thin nose and an even thinner upper lip that had trouble covering big front teeth. All in all, the man was ridiculous, but the atmosphere around him was anything but, so Aramis wisely held his tongue.

"Ha!" The man pointed a finger at them and Aramis just had time to notice that there wasn't a speck of dirt beneath the nails before the man exclaimed "Ha!" again and broke into high pitched laughter. While Aramis, d'Artagnan and Athos shared a bewildered look, the courtiers didn't stir. Aramis' stomach roiled uncomfortably and that was not due to the lack of food.

Once the man's fit had died down, he spun around like a jack-in-the-box and took possession of one of the torches on the walls, which were quite superfluous with the warm daylight around them. Armed like that, the man advanced on them, swished the flame close enough that Aramis could feel the heat scorching his skin only to retreat the next heartbeat with an aghast "Ha!". He almost dropped the torch in the process, too.

"The mighty minister in my humble hall. Finally mine! The mighty! But why are they… so dirty?"

"My lord?", Athos interrupted tentatively, questioning. It was the first time the bandit King seemed to realize that the swordsman was present. His quivering upper lip softened.

"Ah, my most faithful servant, Athos of the musketeers no longer. I am glad to finally meet you, reformed, free and doing my bidding. Yes, quite formidable", he said and mustered Athos appreciatively although Aramis had the sneaking suspicion that the leader was mostly admiring his minion's spotless attire.

"Wash them! I shall not dwell in their grimy presence a moment longer!"

"What?" That was d'Artagnan, startled out of his silence. The bandit King ignored him, whereas some of the men on the benches got up to fulfill their master's wishes without question. Their hands reached for Aramis, tugging at his clothing, which the minister was of course loath to surrender.

"Enough with the kiddin' round", Gul, the man with the body odor Aramis had met during the ride, sneered from among the ranks. His dagger blinked silver in the light as he joined the hassle and cut straight through Aramis shirt. Two goons held him immobile while the breeches received the same treatment.

Faced with the abrupt choice between being embarrassed and shamed or take his disrobing in stride, Aramis naturally went for the latter and presented the women in the audience with his most charming smile. Raising an eyebrow at Gul, he wriggled out of the grip that held him and elegantly disposed of his footwear and his braies. To the left of him, one of the women giggled and received a low rebuke from an angry husband.

"Satisfied?", Aramis asked nobody in particular, his shoulders squared and arms held loosely as far as the shackles allowed. Meanwhile d'Artagnan had also been stripped naked but he bore the situation less gracefully than his brother, cursed and hissed and went bright red around the ears. Quickly, Aramis turned and locked eyes with the younger man, willing him not to let them unbalance him that easily.

He gasped himself, though, when multiple bucketloads of water were unceremoniously thrown at him before a burly man at the edge of his handlers took pity and passed the minister a rag to dry himself off. It was too small to cover himself with, so Aramis simply smirked and tossed it right back at its owner once he was done.

Again a few female voices giggled and sighed, yet Aramis steadfastly refused to acknowledge them. Instead, he focused on the bandit King who had visibly relaxed now that they no longer looked like something the cat had dragged in. Could the man really be concerned with a little dirt? Or was it a ploy to sniff out their comfort zone before the inevitable interrogation? If it was the latter, the scheme had completely failed in his case and only brought about mild success with d'Artagnan, Aramis decided thoughtfully.

"Better. Yes, that is better. Formidable even!", the King of scarecrows determined after scrutinizing them, "Before we begin, you shall know that my name is Adnot Du Caine and..."

"I don't know about you, but I'd rather begin right now", Aramis said in a stage whisper to d'Artagnan. Beside them, the muscles in Athos' jaw clenched, either in contained mirth or anger. Aramis couldn't have cared less which one it was.

"Dull as dishwater", d'Artagnan agreed and fell into an easy routine with Aramis. They'd been imprisoned one too many times to be daunted by a maniac's preposterous speeches.

"Daft as a brush", Aramis elaborated.

"Lights on but nobody's home, most likely."

"Perhaps..." Wham! Aramis' head was thrown to the side as Gul's fist connected. The floor danced merrily in front of his eyes until his rapid blinking made the world go right again. Next to him d'Artagnan swore, but Aramis didn't even register the pain, too stunned to feel anything.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"Do you not understand the gravity of the situation?", Adnot Du Caine wanted to know, his arms crossed in front of his not so wide chest. His lip again quaked with anger as he surveyed his two prisoners who were entirely too reluctant to talk. Ha! He'd teach these loyal lapdogs a lesson they shan't forget. And perhaps, once they were broken into pieces and reassembled according to his wishes, they'd become just as devoted to him as they'd previously been to the boy King. And then he'd clean up the whole filthy court in Paris and he'd be crowned and… The first minister's lighthearted answer interrupted his glorious plans.

"There truly is no other way to describe the situation than with naked honesty", Aramis replied, grinning. "There can be no greater predicament. All this nudity? I can't bare it!"

Bare it? Oh that impertinent fool. Bare it! Ha! I'll make sure to put that loose tongue of his to use. And that other one… Du Caine's expression darkened as he eyed d'Artagnan, embodiment of the world order he so despised. Unclean, wretched, wrong!

The irreverent Captain of the musketeers tried to hold back his laughter and failed miserably when Aramis let loose an avalanche of awfully bad puns regarding their current state of undress. On the other side of their little stage Adnot Du Caine seethed. "Ha! Gul, if you please."

Immediately, the easygoing smile on Aramis' face vanished, his stance becoming rigid when he saw who Du Caine was pointing at. d'Artagnan, his so-called little brother. Slowly and deliberately, Du Caine sidled closer to the first minister. "I know all about that silly notion amongst you. Brotherhood, is it?", he gloated, coming close enough to breathe in the nearly unnoticeable scent of sweat that had formed on Aramis' skin. Disgusting. Weak? He'd pounce like the majestic lion he knew himself to be!

"As a consequence of that droll sentiment, I do not even need to touch your person, do I? Formidable! All I need to do is tear apart the esteemed Captain of the musketeers. Ha! Let's see how well you bare that."

Aramis winced at the pun that was being thrown back in his face and at the horrific implications that went with it. Unbidden, his eyes strayed to Athos who wasn't bothered, his blue eyes bored, cold and unyielding. Du Caine noticed the exchange and swirled the torch around in his hand. "You see, he shan't help you. He is mine now, all mine. My creature."

"I..."

The crack of Gul's powerful fist finding its target caused Aramis to break off his sentence and instead go pale and quiet at the sight of d'Artagnan lying prone before him. Graciously, Du Caine allowed the minister a moment to collect himself. He watched on, a future King surrounded by his crawling, slightly dirty subjects.

"You alive?", Aramis inquired and knelt to grasp his brother's arm, trying to hide his obvious worry. d'Artagnan blinked up at him, shook the dizziness out of his eyes and smirked. "Barely."

Du Caine's supercilious expression slipped out of position for a second as his lip was sucked into his mouth. That word again! Was that an accident? Judging from the Gascon's satisfied expression, it certainly was not. His hatred for the injured man only grew. However, the reaction from the minister almost made up for the disrespect. Aramis stood, shook the wet hair out of his eyes and lowered his head.

"Alright, I surrender and bow to your strength of persuasion. Give me and my friend some clothes, leave him in peace and I shall bare my soul. I'll sing like a bird."

This one Du Caine allowed to pass. He could be merciful, he could allow his subjects a slip of the tongue as long as they were overall obedient. And he could certainly reward the first sign of deference from the first minister of France. With a decisive snap of his fingers that sounded like a whip he summoned two minions with clean linen trousers in their arms. "Dress, monsieur Aramis, then we shall talk."

Wordlessly, the man followed his orders, which pleased Du Caine more than he'd admit to anyone but himself. It was really happening. He was on his way to the crown. Formidable, truly! Taking his time, he lifted the torch higher so that the flames lit up one side of his face and cast the other into shadows. A spectacle for the rubble. After a few breaths, however, Du Caine got tired of waiting and hopped closer to Aramis, who was yanking up the waistband of his trousers over his lean hips and tied it there with a cord.

"First question: Where is the new hiding place of the royal treasury?" Because even renegades on the march to their rightful throne needed funds. The minister thoughtfully replied: "Down in some lone valley, in some lonesome place."

Surprised, Du Caine put his weight on the other foot, rocking back ever so slightly. The treasury was outside of Paris? He needed the next sentence to catch on and realize that something wasn't right.

"Where the wild birds to whistle and their notes do increase", Aramis elaborated, a hint of a smile becoming visible. Also, his voice took on a musical, infuriating up and down quality. Around him, the confused crowd shifted like the rolling sea.

"Farewell pretty Saro, I bid you adieu. And I'll dream of pretty Saro wherever I go." He was singing! Literally. In front of his, Du Caine's, court! Making a mockery out of his reign. How dare he!

"Stop him at once!" Efficient as ever, Athos kicked his former brother in the back of the knees, making him collapse to the floor. It ended the song, but not the brazenness of his prisoner. The devil even had the audacity to look at him in false wide eyed innocence. Filthy liar!

"Pray tell, your majesty, how have I displeased thee?" The honorific was pure irony.

"You mongrel broke your word!", Du Caine shouted, raising his arms for emphasis. The people cheered him on, desperate for more violence like hounds on a prowl. Nevertheless, the first minister met the challenge with quiet yet somehow echoing words that tasted of steel.

"I did no such thing. In exchange for clothing I promised I'd sing and I did."

"Twistin' words, that's what ya did!" In his anger, his countryside accent became more pronounced and that only added to Du Caine's depository of negativity. Beside him, d'Artagnan and Aramis seemed more at ease. The latter opposed him with archness of a fox. "I'm a politician, what did you expect?"

Ha! I'll show him exactly who is Lord in this hall and who is not! Filled with a manic energy, Du Caine dropped the torch like a forgotten toy and marched back to his throne in order to be seated and gain perspective. The full view of his uncertain subjects decided the issue and not in the captive mens' favor.

"I shall teach you respect, Minister." And he knew exactly where to aim for it to hurt the most. "Bring forth my Spanish ambassador so that I may discuss the extradition of monsieur d'Artagnan to Spain. I do think they have a few bills to settle with the Captain of the musketeers, don't you?"

"Think long and hard before you do this", Aramis warned, heedless of his manacles. One would have thought he was the person in power from the way the surrounding men shifted uncomfortably. Du Caine again crossed his arms in front of his chest.

"Is that a threat?", he mockingly intoned but sounded a little too defensive. Some of his men noticed and Du Caine saw them notice, marking them in his mind. Those men could be dangerous to the cause and he had no doubt that the musketeers had registered them, too.

"Not yet", d'Artagnan growled in a menacing voice that would have made Porthos proud. Du Caine blinked, having almost forgotten that he was selling off a person and not a sack of meat. Charles d'Artagnan, thorn in his side, soon to be gone. His knees scraped across the stones as he was dragged upright and roughly escorted towards the door.

Meanwhile Aramis fixed Du Caine with a cold glare. "You do this and you'll better sleep with one eye open for the rest of your life. Or not, because it will not matter in the end. I will find you wherever you try to hide to continue your miserable existence. You're not going to see me coming. You're not gonna hear the shot until it hits you right between the eyes. So you're going to sit there one morning, not thinking of me or of your sins and maybe kissing your wife and children. And between one moment and the next, your brain will paint the walls red and gray. Perhaps your wife will scream. Perhaps I'll kill her too. And your children and anything you have ever loved. And I will not waste any breath on regrets. Do this I shall have my revenge."

"Now that's the way make a valid threat", d'Artagnan commented cheerfully into the absolute silence that had followed Aramis' speech. Du Caine gulped audibly as Aramis favored him with an evil smile but motioned for his men to take d'Artagnan away nonetheless. The prisoner squared his shoulders proudly and if his bravado was forced, nobody but Aramis and Athos would ever know.

They had almost reached the door when it swung open on its own, revealing the Spanish contact who would deliver d'Artagnan to an unending hell of interrogation, torture and ultimately death. Their gazes met and both their eyes widened in shock and recognition.

"You!", d'Artagnan exclaimed, recoiling from the shape. "It can't be."

"Hello again!", the figure answered and grinned delightedly. Without further ado d'Artagnan was grabbed and pulled out of the Great Hall, but the figure stayed behind a moment longer to enjoy the waves he'd created.

"Bonnaire." That was Athos. Aramis still couldn't read the man, but he detected a cocktail of surprise and dismay in the swordsman's voice, which went unnoticed by Du Caine whose big teeth gleamed as he grinned.

"You know each other?", he asked, leaning forward in his chair in a delighted manner. Athos nodded slowly. "We are acquainted."

"Formidable! Escort him and the prisoner to their wagon. We can discuss acceptable payment later", Du Caine ordered and waved his hand dismissively.

"No! Bonnaire, Athos, I'm warning you…", Aramis growled, his face deliciously expressive of the pain Du Caine was causing. To his credit, loyal servant Athos didn't bat an eye, even as Aramis outright begged. "Please don't let this happen… Athos!"

Du Caine had to admit that he loved the power he felt tingling through him. He was unraveling the first minister of France right before all their eyes. So this is what it feels like to rule, he thought, watching the man struggle to follow his little brother. His men kept Aramis where he was, though. Where he belonged. With me, on his knees. Hopefully ready to answer some questions.

"Do you want me to call them back, minister? Do you wish to save him?"

"How can you ask me to choose between my brother and my… kingdom. My Queen and his majesty King Louis", Aramis whispered, more to himself than to anyone else. The amount of torment was palpable even from the distance between them. Du Caine smiled, knowing he now had the upper hand.

"Tell me where the treasury is!"

"In Paris", Aramis said, his head down, all tension draining out of him like blood.

"Where in Paris?" At the sharp tone of Du Caine's voice, Aramis looked directly at him. Brown met gray, calculation met emotion, arrogance met desperation. The air between them crackled with animosity and the promise of violence.

As if in answer to their battle of wills, angry noises could be heard through the door. Like the enraged buzzing of a wasp, indistinct but clear in its aggression. Du Caine tensed in annoyance and looked away from the minister's piercing glare. His conversation with Aramis halted completely as Du Caine placed the voice and sat up. What was going on? From what he'd been told by his men and from his own impression, Athos never shouted. Ever. They all knew that. And yet it was unmistakably his voice warring with another. His cultivated tone lashed out like a knife, prompting the men within the hall to whisper and glance at each other, unsettled. Then a shot rang out and they all fell eerily silent.


	7. Chapter 7

**Trigger warning:** Please be aware that there are very graphic depictions of violence ahead.

* * *

 **Chapter 7**

The carriage door gaped open like a skeleton's jaw. Black and menacing, silently beckoning d'Artagnan to come forward and be delivered to the fate of all dead things. And if he got in, d'Artagnan knew he'd never escape death. After the travels spent in chains, there would be no more reprieve before he was convicted, incarcerated, interrogated, tortured and killed. Not necessarily in that order but with one very certain, very final outcome.

His steps faltered as he warily eyed the vehicle, a cold gust of wind caressing his bare skin like the breath of the grim reaper. He shivered involuntarily, causing the manacles to rub irritatingly against his skin. Perhaps he should do a Lord Duncan and run for all he was worth - and so what if he didn't get three steps before the bandit's musket that was being held to his back was discharged and put him out of his misery? It might be better than the alternative.

But he couldn't do it, not while Aramis was in there somewhere with a madman for company. Not if Constance was out there waiting for him to come home. d'Artagnan owed it to her to at least try and find a loophole in his contract with Death. But how?

There was no fool's bargain he could strike, nobody to plead with – Bonnaire was not one to be reasoned with as long as one didn't have a sizable bribe in sight and Athos had been unreachable even while he rode right next to him for days on end. Moreover, there was no daredevil escape to be launched, no ingenuous plan to be set into motion and definitely no backup laying in wait. So play for time, a small childlike part within him supplied. Athos will save you. And although d'Artagnan recognized it as the part of him that desperately wanted to believe in the good in people, making it unreliable in situations like these, he didn't see any alternative but to give his trust away to somebody he wasn't sure deserved that valuable gift any more.

"So tell me, Bonnaire, how did you end up as the liaison between an enemy country and that mad upstart?", d'Artagnan asked only to receive an angry poke from the bandit behind him. A look over his shoulder at the orange-haired youth confirmed that he'd angered the boy with the derogative term. Unabashed, d'Artagnan grinned at him and earned a hint of fear in those open brown eyes. That one won't be much of a problem, he thought to himself, then straightened as he was prodded forward while Bonnaire answered.

"Oh, it was all a stroke of luck, purely coincidental, I promise you. See, I was gambling with two beautiful ladies and told them of my heroic actions when one of them outed herself as a follower of Lord Du Caine...", Bonnaire explained in his usual charming but sleazy manner.

The tale grew whereas the distance between the Carriage To The Other Side was eaten up by each step. Twenty paces. Bonnaire was meeting Du Caine for the first time and was impressed by his ambition. Fifteen paces. The gun on his spine would not waver. Bonnaire was doing odd jobs for the rebel forces. Ten paces. Athos' hand was like a vice on his arm. The wind had picked up again. d'Artagnan swallowed and fought down nausea. Five paces. Still nothing from Athos. Bonnaire had made contact with the Spanish and began to carry messages back and forth. Oh no, this was happening. No cheating the hangman this time. Three paces. One.

"Alrighty then, let's get d'Arty settled", Bonnaire announced and hopped into the interior of the carriage, leaning out to grasp the chains between the musketeer's hands. Athos' grip on his brother's arm loosened and d'Artagnan had to clench his teeth hard in order not to cry out for help. With his hands balled into fists to prevent them from shaking, d'Artagnan put one foot onto the carriage steps, casting a glance at his one-time friend and mentor. And then Athos winked at him.

d'Artagnan stopped as if suspended in time, utterly floored and no doubt presenting a hilarious facial expression to Athos. He felt the hand on him tighten and something clicked like a stuck cog wheel finally reengaging. The childlike voice shouted in triumph as both d'Artagnan and Bonnaire understood that something fundamental had just changed, but while Bonnaire gulped like a stranded whale, d'Artagnan let himself go limp and fell backwards. He trusted Athos with his body, mind and soul, a fact which the swordsman took full advantage of.

His strong grip pulled d'Artagnan from the step of the carriage and spiraled him into the bandit behind him, prompting the two men to fall in a mess of intertwined arms and legs. Bonnaire, who had held fast to d'Artagnan's chains was promptly stopped from following after by having the carriage door slammed into his face as Athos turned and threw his weight against the red door. Even after falling and being as stunned as the Captain of the Musketeers was, he could hear the impact of wood meeting nose, the nose giving way under the onslaught.

d'Artagnan coughed, tried to gather his senses and some air after he'd hit the earth. The bruises on his back made themselves known with a ferocious throbbing which further hindered his efforts to get to his feet.

Fortunately, Athos was there not a second later. Their fingers met in a strong clasp that could neither be prohibited by the iron that encircled d'Artagnan's wrists nor by the unspoken words that hung in the air between them like mist.

"Athos!" Apparently, d'Artagnan wasn't the only one left with unsettled business with the swordsman. The young bandit stared at the ex-comte with heartbreak. "What are you doing?"

"Farouk, put the weapon down." What weapon? d'Artagnan had been so swept up by his emotions that he hadn't seen the goddamn thing being pointed at him until it was mentioned so carelessly.

"No!", the boy shouted and before either of the Musketeers could react, the bandit aimed a kick at d'Artagnan's ankles that was very similar to the Gascon's own technique on the evening of his capture. Albeit a lot less elegant it was nonetheless effective and made d'Artagnan crash to his knees painfully. Without the reassuring physical contact of Athos' hand, d'Artagnan suddenly found himself kneeling in the no-man's-land between two warring forces of nature, both of which were potentially lethal.

His breath got stuck somewhere in his throat as he acknowledged the fact that Farouk could still easily end his life and prevent him from ever seeing Aramis or Constance again. Athos seemed to have come to the same conclusion because he deliberately backed up a yard or two, leaving d'Artagnan to be picked up like a prize.

Or like a puppet on two masters' strings, d'Artagnan mused grimly while he was yet again seized by his chains. The black mouth of the musket shifted to Athos, even though it shook slightly. Upon seeing this d'Artagnan remained very still. He had no intention of getting himself or his brother shot with any misguided heroics on his part. There simply was no way to reach the gun before Farouk had time to pull the trigger.

"Yar one of us!", the boy screamed, loudly declaring his anguish to the world.

"I was never one of the rebel lord's court. Du Caine is mad, can't you see that, Farouk? He would lead us all into disaster if we let him."

"No! He will be King an' then..."

"He will never be King. If not me, men like Aramis or d'Artagnan will stop him long before he can do any damage."

"We nearly killed them boy king!"

"And are you proud of that, Farouk?", Athos asked with that fearsomely serious voice that cut straight beneath your skin. The farmer felt it too, d'Artagnan could see his reddish eyebrows pull together in honest contemplation. His forehead was shining with sweat and that musket kept on shaking.

d'Artagnan's gaze went back to his steadfast mentor who obviously had built some kind of rapport with this adolescent. However, d'Artagnan feared that it might not be enough to compel Farouk to change sides, mainly because that would be walking away from everything he'd known in his short and very confined life. Perhaps as former nobility, Athos could not see it as clearly as d'Artagnan could. Or perhaps Athos was just sick of all the innocent blood that had already been spilled.

"Killing a child will not make the world a better place. And Du Caine is far too volatile to be a good king. Hell, he couldn't manage the country for an hour before it descended into civil war. See him for what he is, Farouk."

"He is my King, our leader! How couldya betray him? Ya swore an oath!"

"I lied in order to prevent regicide."

"Ya have no honor, ya betrayed us all! Betrayed me! We were friends, yes? Was I not goodtanough for them high and mighty Athos of the musketeers no longer? Why was I not good enough?", Farouk ranted, tears now streaming over his cheeks. His sobs racked his whole body and thus transferred onto d'Artagnan. And the Captain could understand the sinkhole that followed the loss of a friend like Athos. Thus he also knew how hard it would be to forgive this abandonment. If it had been a long process for an educated, worldly-wise soldier like d'Artagnan, would it be impossible for a farm boy turned rebel?

"Farouk -"

"I tried! I tried so hard ta please you. Yet it wasn't enough. Why am I not enough? What did I do wrong? What makes 'im so much better than me?", the boy wanted to know and shook d'Artagnan by the collar, who groaned in pain at having his injuries jostled. Athos' eyes landed on him and the concern that was visible in them spurred Farouk into action.

His hand with the gun whipped around and dealt his captive a staggering blow to the temple. d'Artagnan, disoriented but still aware enough to recognize the chance, let himself be propelled onto his belly. His chin scraped across the stones of the path until one carriage wheel halted his body.

As fast as his syrup-filled body would allow, d'Artagnan twisted around and beheld Athos and Farouk standing not three paces apart, each pointing a loaded musket at each other's chest. From this distance, d'Artagnan knew that Athos' advantage of being a great shot was irrelevant. Should a ball be loosened, it would find its target.

"Don't do it", he croaked. "Don't do it."

"Why not? It's not like I have anything or anyone lefta loose", Farouk answered to d'Artagnan's plea. His young features were marred with guilt as he glanced at the Captain and the blood that was tinting the sand beneath them in the color of summer roses. d'Artagnan tried to make eye contact but failed.

"Yes you do! You have the most important thing left to loose there is: yourself. Shooting him would make you a killer. It changes you. Don't kill that part of yourself, you'll never get it back", d'Artagnan said. For a moment he thought he'd actually gotten through to the distraught young man. The musket was lowered a few degrees as Farouk took a deep breath and met d'Artagnan's intense gaze.

"Yar right. But I've lost that part of me long ago. I was nine."

The carrot farmer looked straight at Athos as he uttered the last words while his arm that gripped the weapon in a sweaty palm swung around to d'Artagnan. Struck by sudden clarity, d'Artagnan saw each individual muscle in Farouk's hand tense and saw the trigger descend slowly. The shot was ear splittingly loud, ripping open the fabric of d'Artagnan's existence.

The Captain rocked back, blinked. Waited for the pain to follow the bullet, for the inevitable blood to spurt from his opened chest. Instead he was assaulted by a spray of red from above. As if a paint brush had been flipped by the fumbling finger of a god, a pattern like a warm and wet storm blast hit his face. In his state of perspicuity, he could feel every single drop on his skin in nightmarish detail, every thundering heartbeat and every glorious breath that reminded him that he was still alive.

"d'Artagnan?"

"d'Artagan, are you alright?" He must have been calling for a while now. Athos. Bending over him, unlocking his manacles.

"I… yes. I, for a moment I thought… I thought you were too late."

"Me too", Athos admitted, abnormally overcome with emotion. He leaned close and d'Artagnan took the opportunity to hug him briefly, closing his eyes with the renewed sense of safety that originated from being in the presence of his big brother. Then d'Artagnan released Athos and saw the unmoving farm boy lying next to them.

That could have been me. In a different life, had Athos, Porthos and Aramis not decided to pull me into the fold, that could have been me.

"Farouk?", he asked.

"Dead." Although Athos' mask was back in place, deep sadness was slipping through the cracks. d'Artagnan felt likewise, knowing they had both failed the youth. "I'm sorry."

"Yes. Me too, d'Artagnan. Me too."


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:** I officially give up on fixing this mess of a chapter. Perhaps you can tell me why it doesn't seem to be working, at least for me.

 **at Debbie** : Thank you again for reviewing! I had so much fun writing the scene where Aramis threatens Du Caine, so I'm really glad you like it and I'm glad you felt like the boys (and me, of course) that it was sad to see Farouk go. I'm not so sure about the good graces, though. There is still a lot to forgive... Anyway, thanks for your fabulous reviews!

 **at Jmp** : A madman indeed. You're going to find out exactly how mad next chapter *evil laugh*. Thanks for the compliments and the awesome support, reading your posts makes me really happy!

 **at Kattyblack** : Hey thanks so much for reviewing! I'm glad you didn't think the mood changes were bad for the story's overall atmosphere. I also enjoyed reading your thoughts regarding Athos. Thanks for sharing!

 **at Beeblegirl** : Right back at you! Thanks for posting a review! ;) If you were worried about Athos' motivation, that just means I'm doing it right, so thanks for mentioning it. Aside from that: thank you for the encouragement, it means a lot.

* * *

 **Chapter 8**

"I did it all in the name of France!", Bonnaire assured them in a high squeaky voice. "I mean, I have a good grasp of how many people work here and who, and I know where we … err, they, are most likely to hide their goodies. You know, I basically did all the work for you!" The merchant looked at them, mostly at Athos, with wide and not so innocent eyes. His whole manner screamed 'Let me be your lackey for a while, can't you see how useful I am?'

Frankly, it made Athos' insides turn with distaste. The former musketeer took a deep breath and willed himself not to pull his sword and run Bonnaire through out of sheer annoyance with the man. When he caught himself seriously contemplating the action, he almost balked. Had he really considered this? Would he have…? Could he have, like this, without a second thought, without regard to human decency...? Had he been changed that deeply by the people around him without even noticing it?

Apparently rotting away a righteous heart was a creeping, unobtrusive process like rainwater washing a riverbed into the earth. Unfortunately, Athos was not sure how to fill the gaping chasm in his heart that the killing of Farouk and the hatred in Aramis' eyes had carved out. Perhaps he couldn't and perhaps he deserved it.

"We'll take him with us", Athos said and thus forcefully heaved himself back into the present, physically shrugging to rid himself of his contemplations. Now was hardly the right time to get all philosophical.

"He knows his way around the estate better than most people if his appraisal is correct and as a result will serve as our guide for now. We don't have any time to loose", he continued, mostly spelling out the plan for Bonnaire's sake. Moreover, one unambiguous glance at his sword told him exactly what would happen should the merchant betray them. At the same time as Bonnaire nodded meekly, d'Artagnan laboriously wobbled to his feet. Athos refrained from lending a hand mainly to spare the boy's pride. God knew he'd lost too much at his, Athos', hands already. Freedom, health, his clothes and weapons and should all fail, a brother.

"Let's go get our favorite idiot back before he manages to get himself killed", d'Artagnan quipped as if he'd followed Athos' train of thoughts. The tired tone prompted Athos to submit d'Artagnan to a quick visual examination while the kid received a loose black linen trousers from inside the carriage. d'Artagnan sure looked as terrible as he sounded. The blood on his face only served to highlight the paleness of his features and the contrasting blackt and purple bruises all over his body, giving him the air of a dead man walking. Nonetheless, the stubborn fool made it to the entrance hall on his own and Bonnaire quickly pointed out a convenient closet when they heard multiple voices coming down to greet them.

"Seems like the assembly broke up", d'Artagnan hissed and Athos nodded mutely in the dimness of their hiding place. Naturally, they both wondered whether the dismissal of Court was good or bad regarding Aramis' state of health. Athos furthermore agonized over his decision to follow d'Artagnan outside. What if they were too late? What if Aramis was beyond saving by now? If he hadn't gone, d'Artagnan might forever be lost to him, but leaving the marksman like this… it was unforgettable. Unforgivable. It tore him apart with every breath that filled his lungs with bitter uncertainty.

"We're good to go." d'Artagnan led them through the building towards the audience chamber and Athos marveled at the easiness of his protégé's command. He'd definitely grown in his absence, the swordsman decided and watched him fondly. Until they thrust open the doors to the sight of Du Caine slowly setting fire to Aramis discarded, bloody shirt. While d'Artagnan stayed hidden in the doorway, Athos all but stormed up to the madman who grinned at him in a disconcerting fashion.

"Ever had a day where you want to set somebody's face on fire and put it out with a fork?", Du Caine inquired and turned on the horror in Athos' mind. Oh please no, not Aramis.

"Where is the minister?", he growled, straight to the point. Du Caine twirled away like a very ugly ballerina. "Come to play? No? Well, I have."

"What is that supposed to mean? Where is Aramis?" He was rapidly losing his patience, partly because of the detour they had taken before coming up to meet the Bandit King. Time was a valued commodity right now and only years of training kept any urgency out of his voice as he patiently repeated the question a third time.

Finally, Du Caine faced Athos and shrugged carelessly. "Your pet? I broke him. Do you still want him back or should I buy you a new one?"

"You what?!", d'Artagnan shouted and entered, his rapier drawn and pointed right at the villain, who glanced at the weapon before thoughtfully fixing his eyes on Athos again.

"Ha! You would betray me? Interesting, but I ask you this: would you ever shoot the devil in the back? And more importantly, what would you do if you missed?"

"Your sense of self-worth greatly surpasses your importance. You're nobody and certainly neither demon nor Satan", Athos told him plainly.

"I am your judge, Lord, executioner, King, executioner, jailer, and, if necessary, your executioner."

"Uh, you said 'executioner' three times", Bonnaire chimed in. Du Caine shrugged and idly swung the ever present torch around, narrowly missing the remnants of the curtains at the decaying balcony. "So what? I like that part of the job."

"Where is Aramis?" We have no time to stray, Athos would have liked to shout. The fifteen minutes that had seemed plenty to retrieve their brother and march out of this hellhole suddenly seemed a lot less generous.

"Oh, I sent him somewhere to cool off. Or rather, warm to my ideas", Du Caine replied. The thin lip peeled back in triumph and Athos couldn't hold back any longer – he punched the man right into his disgusting rat face. Du Caine howled but a second less emotionally charged punch brought him down, knocked out cold. d'Artagnan wordlessly caught be torch as it fell from the madman's grasp, shrugging as if to say 'Oh well, he had it coming.'.

Together they ran down the stairs again and veered towards the dungeon. How much time had passed? Athos couldn't help but hurry even though d'Artagnan was breathing hard and bent over to protect his ribs. He would apologize later if there was a later. Right now they had to find Aramis… who wasn't in his cell. Athos rocked back, slightly shocked and silently furious whereas d'Artagnan cursed loudly.

Strangely enough, Bonnaire seemed pensive. "Warm up, he said..."

"Do you know where he might be?", d'Artagnan asked without reservations. Bonnaire grinned, greed shining out of his eyes like a magpie that had spotted a shiny trinket.

"I'll tell you if you swear to let me go free once this is over."

"You don't tell us and we're all dead", Athos answered stonily. Bonnaire reconsidered a total sum of three seconds before he folded.

"Fine! There is a room in the kitchens that's normally used to smoke ham. Du Caine sometimes locks his prisoners in there."

"Lead the way." His voice was tight with contained fury at the image of Aramis incarcerated in a room without enough air. At least his anger prompted the wily salesman to obey instantly and show them into the impossibly clean kitchen. An indoor well sat next to a mingle-mangle of pots and pans and a fire roared in the hearth, yet there was nobody in sight. No Aramis. No time left. Nowhere else to search. No way but down towards hell for Athos.

The swordsman paced the room and glowered at Bonnaire, who weaseled over to what Athos had judged a large cupboard situated directly at the back of the chimney. It's door was metal and reached to his shoulder, probably heavy to discourage any would-be opportunist from stealing food stores. He frowned when Bonnaire pulled the handle after he'd put his sleeve over his hand to protect it from the intense heat.

"You can't be serious", Athos scoffed but still grabbed the door and pulled mightily. A loud grating sound was followed by coughing from the smoke. The chimney of the hearth seemed to run through the smoking chamber before it slanted towards the roof and Bonnaire had been right, the temperatures were extremely high. Athos blinked, trying to clear his eyes. It was then that he finally mentally counted the voices of men coughing. Three. Which would have been fine except that d'Artagnan was stationed by the door, far enough not to have been incorporated by the cloud of ash.

"Aramis?"

"A-" Hacking cough. "A-thos. Help."

"Aramis!", d'Artagnan shouted, obviously of a heart and mind to join them despite the fact that Athos had thrown all caution in the wind and walked right into the oven, the heat causing his eyes to water almost immediately. He started sweating even before he reached his brother.

Now that the smoke had been diluted, he could see more of Aramis figure. Assessing, Athos noticed right away that they had shackled Aramis' hands above him with an iron chain that lead to a hook in the ceiling. Like a piece of meat. Bastards. Aramis' chest was bare except for a thick layer of grime, sweat and ash having mixed into a slick dark grey coat. His bare feet hung above the ground, putting all the strain on his shoulders and as another sickening bonus further constricting his airway. He was too hot to the touch, too dry.

Athos gripped the metal chain tightly but let go on reflex. Goddammit, that thing was scorching! His hands were red even after touching it for less than a second. Gritting his teeth, Athos reached for the metal with both hands, this time aiming for the hook and bending it back so that it would release its weight.

Next to him Aramis groaned when he was relieved from the torturous position. His arms fell bonelessly and Athos caught him, torn between dark angry thoughts at the perpetrators and hopefulness. They were all alive, maybe they would get out…

Boom!

The earth shook, raining blistering debris and half-smoked ham down on them. Aramis stumbled violently and pulled Athos with him towards the back wall behind which lay the open fire. No! Unwilling to let his brother take the pain, Athos threw himself and his package around as much as he could, causing them to switch positions.

His head collided with the stones and Athos couldn't say whether he felt the burn, the blunt trauma or like a herd of burning unicorns had rolled over him. It simply hurt. A lot. And they needed to get out. Fast.

"d'Artagnan! Get Aramis!" Out of nowhere, there were hands on him. Who?

"Aramis?"

"No, it's me, you fool", d'Artagnan replied amiably and proceeded to pull his mentor to his feet before applying the same treatment to a still coughing and somewhat confused Aramis on the kitchen floor.

Athos watched him as much as the blacking in and out of his vision allowed. His fingers strayed to his own temple and came away wet, though that was hardly their biggest problem. As they opened the kitchen door, they were greeted by a sea of flames and even more smoke.

Perfect execution of the plan, Athos thought sarcastically. Nobody will search for us in this chaos. Sadly, they don't need to since we'll be burned to sticks by the time the fire has devoured everything in its path. Somewhere between finding Aramis and everything exploding, Bonnaire had also vanished. Escape to the outside wasn't an option now, though, d'Artagnan had had to close the door already to preserve what little air was left. They had effectively condemned themselves to death.

"Perhaps a longer fuse would have been the better choice", d'Artagnan admitted ruefully. Athos only grimaced, whereas Aramis showed no reaction at all.

"For all it's worth: it's been an honor, gentlemen", the young Captain began, but received angry glares from both his big brothers that silenced him effectively. Athos crouched down as the air above grew thicker and thicker with smoke. There had to be a way out, some window or back door or…

"The well. Get in, right now", Athos commanded and strode over himself. Taking off the lid revealed a five meter drop into a body of water. Survivable.

"Going for an afternoon swim, are we?", d'Artagnan commented with a look down himself, solemn goodbyes forgotten for now. Instead his roguish grin had again filled his expression. In contrast, Athos stayed calm and ordered the youngest down first. d'Artagnan shot him a glance that clearly said his mentor wasn't allowed to sacrifice himself for some stupidly noble cause, then jumped obediently and without a trace of fear.

"Cozy!", he shouted once he'd surfaced. Athos guided Aramis onto the rim, looking into the cloudy eyes of his brother while the hand around his arm suddenly tightened. "Don't you dare leave us down there alone. I'm not through with you yet", Aramis pronounced. Athos nodded.

"Follow right after. You need to hold me up when I loose consciousness", the Spaniard continued in between coughs. Behind him the door bubbled and blistered. At Athos' sharp intake of breath, Aramis jumped. Athos waited until he heard d'Artagnan's go ahead, felt the flames licking at his arm and let himself blindly fall into the hole. He landed with a splash, unsure where up and down was until a hand wrenched his head above the water.

"Hold on to Aramis!", were the first words out of his mouth. Wordlessly, d'Artagnan obeyed and they remained there, treading water while Aramis breathing quickened and then evened out in unconsciousness and the flames consumed the world above them.

Athos felt the pulse pounding in his eyes, the heat on his face and the cold that tried to seep into his bones. d'Artagnan's brown eyes grounded him whenever his aching head drifted, his arm around Aramis waist anchored him to his brothers.

He didn't know how long they stayed in that embrace. Long enough for his muscles to cramp with exhaustion, long enough for his teeth to chatter and d'Artagnan's lips to turn a ghostly blue. Long enough for Athos to fear that they would find their watery graves down here.

Eventually, it got quiet. The fire changed into the blackness of night and they could have left their double-edged sanctuary. However, none of them had the strength to climb up the slippery stones by then. Treading water had become the only chore they were able to do and even that… Athos head dipped below the water line for the hundredth time and he came up spitting, the salty taste of blood on his tongue but more awake than he'd been.

"d'Artagnan! Aramis! Somebody? d'Artagnan! ..."

There were voices above, or was he dreaming? Athos shook his head, water flying around him, then raised his voice.

"Down here!", he hollered. It cost him, water flooding his mouth once more, but a face appeared on the rim of the well only moments later. Somebody let a sling down for them, a strong rope that was wound around Aramis first, then around d'Artagnan, lifting them up and towards the land of the living.

Athos sighed, tension uncoiling. His brothers would survive this. They might be safe. They might not die. He might not have killed them with his recklessness. Oh, he could breathe easy again! Except for Farouk's dead eyes staring at him and Du Caine's mad laughter chasing him and Aramis' accusing anger burning through his soul…

The rope landed next to him with a splash and Athos blinked lazily, slowly wound it a few times around his arm. He, too, was lifted out of the darkness and grasped by oddly familiar dark brown arms. A welcome face surrounded by black and gold grinned down at him like a ghost from happier times.

"Porthos…?"

"Well met, brother!" And then he was engulfed in a warm crushing embrace that might just knit his broken pieces back together, even if it was only for a blissful heartbeat.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N** **:** Hello there,

 **20k!** I made it. Well, actually this story was planned as a 15k story, but **your amazing superfantastic reviews** and numerous **follows** were absolutely inspiring and thus this story is far from finished and I love it. Thanks!

 **at Debbie:** Yeah, that's so true! Murphy's Law certainly seems to apply to all the situations the boys find themselves in. I love writing from Athos' POV for exactly the same reasons you pointed out - he definitely worries a lot. I'm really glad you liked that. Find out below about Porthos and thanks a lot for your review!

 **at Jmp** : Thank you for reviewing, I really appreciate it! And yes, I did put them through the wringer in this one. Perhaps Porthos (or Constance?) will be able to protect the boys from harm from now on... or not. I'm not telling. And thanks for mentioning Louis, he will feature again in the later chapters.

 **at Dee** : Hey thanks so much for leaving a review! And thanks for all those compliments, I'm flattered. I'm glad you liked the return of Porthos, I wasn't sure whether to include him or not, but the Musketeers aren't the same without him, are they?

Now, here's chapter nine. Enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter 9**

A low roll of thunder rumbled through the early evening sky, a chuckle predicting storms. The entire day had been spent under a roiling quilt of dark clouds, the color of bruises, that had choked out the sun. Whenever Constance wasn't searching the road and the surrounding brush for nonexistent clues, she was glancing at those clouds warily. Any slim shimmer of chance would be washed away should that god forsaken tempest break loose.

"Anything yet?", she asked for the umpteenth time, only receiving sad head shakes in response though she'd known asking was futile. Eager as the recruits were to prove themselves to the Great Charles d'Artagnan and by association to her, they would have signaled her had they any inkling of where her husband had been taken. Inwardly Constance sighed while she smiled encouragingly at the boys.

"Don't worry lads, I'm sure d'Artagnan will let us know where to find him", she said in an effort to keep up morale. Like a swarm of puppies they turned to her except for Michél who instead sought to ease his inner turmoil in a confrontation.

"How?" His tone was nothing short of accusing, but Constance blamed it on frustration and fear, not on the honest wish to verbally attack her. Thus, she decided not to reprimand the boy for speaking out of turn. Calmly, certainly, she put a hand on her hip and faced them.

"My husband and Minister d'Herblay were Musketeers long before this unfortunate affair and they will always be Musketeers at heart. Their ferocity and their strength is unrivaled", she said and didn't need to speak loudly to catch all the attention. They clung to her hope like to a mother's skirt. "Also", Constance added with a wink, "Aramis and d'Artagnan have been getting in trouble quite a lot, so they've become experienced in these matters."

A few of the older recruits exchanged smiles, the mood lightening as Michél began to retell one of the countless tales that were slowly becoming legends and twined around the two still living men like ivy. "I heard that Monsieur d'Artagnan once swam across the ocean and through an underwater city to infiltrate a Spanish stronghold. He subdued them all on his own!"

"No, I heard he had the help of a sea witch."

"Are you stupid? There is no such thing as a sea witch!"

"But it's true!", Bertrand, one of the youngest boys, insisted. "I heard she had flames for hair and bewitched all the men by promising them ever lasting love and… err, pleasures of the body." He cast a shy glance in Constance's direction, who let them gossip while trying her best not to dissolve into giggles like a little girl. Knowing most of what had actually happened, she could piece together which escapades the recruits were talking about - and she'd easily guessed the identity of the mysterious sea witch. Whether she should feel insulted or flattered about her role, however, she wasn't sure.

"Madame d'Artagnan!", Michél suddenly piped up, his young face wide with awe, "I think I've found a clue!"

"Oh?" Constance couldn't help the quickening of her heart.

"Yes, look!" He pointed, but not towards the ground as she'd expected, but behind her into the sky where among the threatening darkness of the storm clouds a thick column of lighter gray particles rose into the air. Smoke! Constance grinned just as openly as the boys in that instance, thanking the Almighty or whatever gods were out there that apparently her lost husband had decided to play the Indian and send smoke signals. Well, she thought and strode over to her black mare after checking the guns that sat on her hips, if that's the game we're playing, I'll be the Cowboy and catch you. Just you wait for me.

In addition to her worry for d'Artagnan, Constance also hurried because of the enormity of the inferno they were certain to encounter upon arrival: what they were witness to wasn't the result of a camp fire. This would be nothing short of total destruction of a livelihood. Her assumptions proved mostly true as they crested a grassy hill and beheld an entire main house of an estate on its way to fiery ruin. Men were running to and fro in a panic, tiny like ants from a distance. They seemed leaderless and uncoordinated in their frantic endeavour to extinguish the flames with too few buckets, hadn't even established a line to carry the water to where it was needed. Nonetheless, Constance saw an unusual number of metal that reflected the firelight – guns, swords, daggers, danger.

"Approach cautiously", she therefore urged and kicked her mare into a trot. With fidgeting hands and nervous gazes, they boys followed her lead. Only one set of heavy hoof beats rolled up from behind her like a ravine, a hard gallop. Angry, Constance turned in the saddle to command the overzealous Michaél back into formation.

It certainly wasn't Michél. Instead, it was a mountain of metal armor and muscle atop a sweating warhorse. It was wild raw power and a war commander on his steed. It was Porthos who raced by her with his rapier drawn and a battle cry on his lips.

"Bonnaire!"

Huh? What kind of battle shout was that? Constance shook herself out of staring like a Guernsey cow, her sharp mind zeroing in on the fleeing man that was obviously the victim and destination of Porthos' campaign. A merchant, richly dressed, dark hair, running away with unbecoming haste… Oh. That Bonnaire.

"Follow him! Michél, Saint-Sebastian – guard his flanks. Bertrand, Patenaude, Jolie Jasques, you're with me." Decision made, Constance joined the fray. Some of the farmers heroically tried to separate Bonnaire from Porthos, but the man was not to be stopped and threw adversaries aside like broken clay cups in a tavern brawl. After drawing her own weapons, she dismounted and called out: "In the name of Queen Regent Anne of Austria and King Louis, lay down your arms. We are Musketeers!"

Heavens, that had been the wrong thing to say. Even more weapons found their way into empty hands, men were advancing on them that had previously content to stand by and watch. Constance quickly reassessed the situation, now judging the citizens in need of help to be brigands. Fine, she thought, as long as d'Artagnan's face is on the other end of this I can deal with anything.

"En garde!" Michél now stood beside her without the slightest hint of their previous dissent. Their shoulders nearly touched as they secured Porthos' right side against the growing mob of lawless men. Meanwhile, Porthos had caught up with Bonnaire and was shaking him like a leaf in a storm. Constance couldn't hear a word in the cacophony of screaming men and steel, but she was hoping with all her heart that Bonnaire knew where her husband and Aramis were located. And that Porthos knew to ask the right question.

Please don't be in there, she thought with a glance at the orange and blue core of hellish heat too close to them. With every step she did and every time her rapier met another, she repeated her new mantra. Please don't be in there. Please be safe. Please don't be in there. Please don't. Please don't be in there.

"They are inside!", Porthos informed her as soon as they had enough space to breathe. His massive hand on her shoulder held her back from charging into the burning mansion and after a moment of heartbreak and unfiltered emotion, Constance managed to put a levee in front of her anger and anguish. She was a Musketeer, not a wailing woman.

"Let's finish this", she growled between her teeth and earned a look of respect on Porthos' face. The warrior and her made a formidable pair, strength paired with speed, and somewhere in the back of her mind Constance wondered what the sea witch legend would evolve into with material like this to feed from.

Sometime into the evening, the fighting quieted down as the men either fled or surrendered. Relieved, Constance ordered her recruits to set up a perimeter but let the runners run. She wasn't hunting today.

Faced with the unenviable choice of either waiting until the flames died completely down or to search the smoldering remains, she naturally chose the latter and strode through the entrance hole that had once been a door. The stairwell and the roof beams loomed over her like a scorched rib cage, filling her with dread. Between ash and coal nothing moved, nothing was even remotely alive. The smell of burned meat assaulted her nose and she would have liked to vomit.

Damn d'Artagnan for being such a hothead! Damn him for always getting into situations like these! Damn him for wanting to be a hero. Constance's shoulders shook with repressed tears, but she evaded Porthos' touch and marched on. Her fingers trailed over rough stones that had cracked from age or from the heat and she unwillingly imagined what it would feel like to have the flesh melt off your bones. How long would it take?

"d'Artagnan? Aramis! d'Artagnan! Holler if you insufferable bastards can hear me!", Porthos shouted and winked at her even though his face was creased with lines of worry. He continued to shout throughout the search.

"d'Artagnan! Aramis! Someody? d'Artagnan!" They had entered the kitchen area when she heard it. The faint wheeze of a smokey voice. And although she was convinced that it was neither Aramis nor her husband, the tone seemed familiar and prompted her to lift her moist eyes. If one soul was alive, there could be more.

Porthos found the source of the noises first, lifting a broken piece of the ceiling from a small well. He bent over the hole and began to smile in a disbelieving and endlessly relieved manner. "You ain't never gonna believe what I just found", he said to her, grinning from ear to ear.

"d'Artagnan?"

"Yeah."

"Aramis?"

"Yeah." His expectant expression caused her to frown in confusion.

"… and?", she asked when he wasn't forthcoming while she carefully climbed over mountains of still hot debris.

"Athos."

"No, it can't be." But she was smiling, too. If Lady Fate or Karma had had a hand in this, she would have to thank them later. Right now she had a husband and her closest friends to rescue.

They quickly found a rope and equally quickly got them out of the cold and wet hole in the ground. Aramis, it turned out, was unconscious and d'Artagnan was on his way there, too. The only man who recognized them, albeit with glassy eyes, was Athos. The man exchanged a long smile with Constance, conveying so many more emotions than his few words could ever have. Love and gratitude on both sides. Happiness. Flickers of guilt. Understanding. Exhaustion. Worry. Worry won, it seemed.

"Aramis and d'Artagnan are hurt."

"So are you", Porthos replied in his usual warm manner after he'd released Athos from a bear hug. Constance saw to settling them down and fifteen minutes later, Athos was sitting at the fire with a bowl of stew in his hand, freshly dressed in dry clothes while Bert was tying a bandage around his head.

d'Artagnan's head was pillowed on Constance's lap and she caught Athos staring at their position with an unreadable expression, but upon her questioning gaze he averted his. Shrugging inwardly, Constance focused on Aramis, who was still being fussed over by Porthos and Michaél. The minister had been tortured, she could see that. Burns above abrasions at his wrists that looked worse than simple rope burn. He also carried a stab wound on his shoulder and bruises. So many bruises on him and d'Artagnan.

"How has this happened?", she asked nobody in particular. Despite the fact that most of the musketeers had settled around them, Athos' eyes stayed completely on Porthos' and on her face when he cleared his throat.

"After the ambush, Aramis and d'Artagnan were taken here against their will. They were brought to Adnot Du Caine for interrogation regarding the schedule and safety procedures of the palace. Du Caine was planning to usurp the French throne. Of course Aramis and d'Artagnan refused to comply with Du Caine's commands, whereupon he decided to sell d'Artagnan to the Spanish via Bonnaire", Athos recounted calmly, though his dark hair was still dripping on his shoulders and his muscles were shaking nearly unnoticeably. His tiredness notwithstanding, he raised an eyebrow in a minuscule gesture at the mention of the merchant's name.

"Sorry, the scoundrel made a clean getaway", Porthos said. Constance smirked.

"That is to say, first Porthos frightened the living daylights out of him until he told us where you were", she added, which teased a small smile out of the exhausted escapee. Constance turned to Porthos curiously and in an effort to relieve Athos of the attention. That man needed sleep but both her and Porthos were still wired up from fighting.

"Pray tell, Monsier le general, how did you come upon us at exactly the right time?"

"Queen Anne sent me. Jus' got back from the war, haven't even seen to Elodie and Marie", Porthos lamented without force. His tender hands slowed on Aramis' body as his eyelids fluttered open. For a heartbeat the Minister panicked and struggled, during which Porthos held him still, then he became aware of his surroundings.

Aramis took it all in and set up against Porthos' wide chest before most of the men even noticed that he was awake. Paradoxically, he didn't relax even though he was familiar with all of them and instead exhibited a disconcerting amount of mistrust in their presence. Constance checked his dark brown eyes, finding keen intelligence and no sign of sleep befuddlement. What was going on?

"Has he told you what happened?", Aramis wanted to know and pointed at Athos with something Constance would have thought was accusation if she'd not known better.

"Yes. We know about Du Caine and his machinations", she reassured him. "We will catch whoever did this to you and bring him to justice."

"Well", Aramis drawled, "Then you better start with the man next to you. After all, Athos is one of them."

Constance gulped. Karma was truly a bitch.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Whoops. This chapter has been sitting on my desktop the whole week. I completely forgot to post it, shame on me!

Well, here you go!

PS: I'm going to answer all your awesome replies as soon as possible. Please continue to be just as supportive, you rock!

* * *

 **Chapter 10**

"Where the devil are my pants?"

d'Artagnan's annoyed words intruded upon Aramis admittedly fantastic dream that featured Anne, a little pink lace corset and an obscene amount of whipped cream. Frowning, Aramis reached behind him where his saddlebags were usually stored, fully intending to make the youth shut up by throwing one of his own pieces of clothing at him. This time, however, Aramis grasping fingers met warm flesh behind him.

"Wha?", he muttered, still half asleep and just noticing that his fingers hurt. In fact, so did his chest. And cheek. Shoulders. Wrists most of all. They were burning as if encased in molten lead. Memories rushing back, Aramis sat up with a gasp and forgot all about the person behind him in the process. His hand, which he used to stabilize his spinning field of vision with, slapped carelessly against a face on its way to Aramis' forehead. "God, that hurts", he said quietly and blinked in an effort to get his watery eyes to focus.

Finally, a slightly embarrassed and very naked d'Artagnan came into view. While the Captain of the Musketeers stole his wife's blanket to preserve his modesty, a low rumble behind them signalled Porthos' rise into the land of the living.

"Who slapped me?", the man grumbled, voice so rough from sleep that he sounded like a bear.

"Sorry mate", Aramis replied, not sounding remotely apologetic. "d'Artagnan needed to find his pants." While he effortlessly shifted the blame to d'Artagnan, part of him still tried to figure out what was going on, speaking of the larger picture. Even though the quickly evolving bickering between old friends was beyond reassuring, something nagged at Aramis' mind. Why was he feeling as if he'd just run a marathon and been burned like a witch at the stake?

Because he had been. It struck him like lightning. Maybe he hadn't been burned with open fire, but the feeling of suffocation and soul crushing fear were probably similar, Aramis thought. Involuntarily, the easygoing smile slipped off his face as his gaze wandered to the last camper around the fire. Athos shivered as if feeling the icy glare on him. Genteel leather that was nearly unblemished by their bath yesterday creaked as Athos turned over onto his back. His breathing was even and unhurried.

He seems at peace, Aramis thought and for a moment wondered why that made him feel furious. Weren't they brothers after all this, glad to give each other comfort around a campfire? Were they? After all he put me through? There were a hundred reasons to be mad at the swordsman and equally as many why he should forgive. However, as Aramis tried to be a good Christian and turn the other cheek, he found that the dam had broken and the need for violence was taking him like a flood.

How dare Athos? How dare he be fine with all this? How dare he look the same as ever?

"Hey!" Aramis didn't bother to keep his voice down. He had a feeling the confrontation he was heading for was not going to be unobtrusive. "You and your mad master tried to kill me, you know. Slowly. Painfully. And yet here you are. Sleeping next to us as if you weren't a godforsaken traitor. Walking away scot-free? _I don't think so._ "

He jerked Athos up into a sitting position by his collar, hissing loudly when the woken man reflexively took hold of Aramis' aching wrists. Accident or purposeful reminder? Knowing Athos, Aramis decided it was probably the latter, which caused the holes in his armour to widen further and the ripping current to consume more of their brotherhood. Good. Better to be rid of it. It did still hurt, though, staring into the hauntingly familiar face, those bottomless eyes and unreadable expression. He'd known Athos for half his life and the better half at that, going through thick and thin with his brothers at his side. Ruins ready to be washed away, he reassured himself.

"I will of course take responsibility for my actions. However, I do believe I acted in the best interest of France, Aramis", Athos answered evenly. Having released his hands once he noticed their unfortunate placement, he let them rest in his lap. Not defending himself because he knew he'd committed unspeakable wrongdoings. Or because he trusts me not to hurt him. Well, he shouldn't have hurt d'Artagnan.

"In the best interest of France?", Aramis repeated, close to shouting now. His normally melodious voice was filled with venom as he leaned in. "That is exactly what the cardinal said after he plotted to kill the Queen."

Something flashed in Athos' eyes. Hurt? Anger? Blood lust? Come at me, brother! I can see through your disguise now. I see the evil you're trying to hide. Lay it out for all to see!

"I never plotted to kill anyone. In fact, you'd all be dead if not for me."

"Oh yeah? How so? Because all I remember you doing is helping them to punch and kick the shit out of d'Artagnan. Every single night of the journey." Aramis glanced at the man in question, who had found his missing piece of clothing and was now visibly wincing while holding back a confused Constance.

"Look, Aramis, I understand your reluctance..."

"Reluctance? That's one way to describe it." He scoffed, giving in to the urge to shake Athos. "You. Threatened. My. Son."

"I was trying..."

"My son, Athos!"

"I.."

"My own son."

"I'm sorry."

"That isn't good enough!" His arms were straining from the exertion of roughing up a grown man. So was his voice. "No, Athos. Whatever explanation you have to offer, whatever reasons you might have conjured up in that warped mind of yours, they all evaporated as soon as you involved Louis", Aramis stated with finality and with labored breathing that matched Athos' only sign of discomfort.

"Give him a chance to explain himself. I'd like to hear his story for sure. The complete version this time", Constance interjected gently. Aramis had almost forgotten that they were not alone. A few meters away, multiple groups of recruits were watching them warily, but Aramis didn't care if he destroyed his reputation. Nevertheless, he let go of Athos abruptly as if he suddenly saw something disgusting and needed space. A cockroach perhaps. Or a rat. Rage still clouded his mind and his heart so that he missed the first few sentences of the swordsman's monologue. His sharp focus returned when his son's name was mentioned, though.

"...Louis and the Queen. By then Sylvie had gone home, but I knew I could not leave the brigands and risk letting this plot go forward. Consequently, I uttered a few slurs against the majesties and let them think they were safe. Their plans were disconcertingly thought out, lending the impression of a higher authority that gave commands. I needed to find that person if there was to be any hope of safety for our King."

"And sending a goddamn letter would not suffice?", Aramis seethed. Porthos put a heavy hand on his shoulders and Aramis leaned into it, thankful for the support. He still felt bodily weak in a situation where strength was required. His mind, though, was slowly clearing.

"After I pledged to their cause, they would not let me out of their sight. There was no chance to inform even my wife, let alone pen down the plot", Athos explained patiently. He wasn't talking to Aramis alone but addressed all of them and Aramis could see that his words were reaching d'Artagnan. That boy would forever worship his mentor, so he was far from objective. Of course, neither was Aramis himself, which he recognized with a sense of bitterness.

"Go on", he said and suppressed a cough. He still didn't need Athos to know about his vulnerability.

"We were lying in wait long before you arrived at the Golden Crown Inn. When I heard the commotion downstairs, I convinced the men to wait a little longer, hoping you would have things well in hand before we came downstairs. Obviously, I underestimated their manpower and overestimated the effectiveness of your response to the threat." How eloquent. How analytical.

"So it's our own fault we were captured? Is that what you're saying?" Aramis said, pacing to hide shaking legs, wanting to kick something, anything to distract from the turmoil inside him.

"No. I'm assessing the situation."

"Assess away", Aramis replied mockingly. Athos raised his eyebrow in response but otherwise wasn't fazed. "The men I was with had discussed killing you or d'Artagnan after frustrations were high due to the fact that the King escaped. Keeping them from maiming either of you became a priority, which I achieved by the vespertine entertainment."

"Entertainment", Aramis repeated condescendingly. He was reminded of their conversation through the cell bars a few days ago. Hearing it again didn't make the statement any less outrageous. In the meantime, d'Artagnan had made a comment about the fights being a good training exercise in a lame attempt to lighten the mood. Aramis wasn't up for that, the tidal wave of foaming resentment not much lower than before.

"If your intentions were all that honourable, Athos, tell me why after you'd met the madman inside the mansion, you couldn't simply steal the damn keys to the dungeon and let us out."

"No opportunity."

"That's it? Then you should have tried harder!" Porthos, his face dark and the muscles in his jaw working, seemed inclined to agree with Aramis' sentiments. The hand on Aramis' shoulder definitely tightened in anger only to return to the status quo with an apologetic look at the injured minister.

"I did try! Believe me, I did! But you were under constant observation, as was I", Athos said. Finally, there was bite behind his words. Aramis went in like a shark that smelled blood in the water.

"So you simply enjoyed your new company and waited? Oh, and once you knew that Du Caine was going to torture us for information, you gladly escorted us to his waiting arms and literally let us walk into the open knife."

"Yes."

"Why?" Constance had gone pale like the white clouds that swirled innocently above them. The wind had whipped her hair loose from the up-do, making it dance like the children on the run from a terrible truth.

"I needed to show them that I was trustworthy."

"Show them your true self, you mean", Aramis added. Athos didn't comment.

"Once they weren't suspicious any longer I could act. I prepared the black powder in the armory and followed d'Artagnan outside. The rest you know."

"Yeah. You reacted in your best interest when push came to shove." It wasn't entirely true, Aramis admitted, but he was unwilling to let his darker feelings go just yet. Although Athos' tale did make a certain amount of sense, Aramis could not believe that the path his friend had chosen was the only one to be walked down.

"I did what was necessary." Calm as a statue again. Blue eyes looking straight at him, yet he wouldn't, couldn't be fooled again. He would only get his heart ripped out and eaten by that hyena.

"So...", Aramis drawled, stepped away from Porthos to approach the sitting form across the fire. "You'd do it all over again even after all that has occurred?" He saw Athos clench his fingers, but the man was nothing if not resolute, steadfast. His gaze did not waver for a seconds as he answered loudly for all of them to hear his crime.

"Yes. To protect France and all of you. Yes, I'd do it again."

"You bastard!" Aramis fist was flying before he even thought about it. He caught Athos right on the cheek, his knuckles crunching the same moment the cheekbone beneath the skin of his enemy did. Aramis stumbled forward a step, finding his balance while Athos was thrown onto his back. Athos' head hit the ground with a dull thump, introducing a moment of absolute silence.

Shock at his own actions mingled with satisfaction and a surprising amount of regret as Aramis' heard his brother groan in pain. The downed man got up slowly and only to his knees before those wobbled and he crawled a few paces before he retched miserably into the bushes. Nobody moved as the awful sounds filled the air. Aramis knew they were all waiting for his reaction. Suddenly, Aramis didn't know what to do. Observing Athos' shaking frame had cut through the flood after the punch had allowed the wave of betrayal and endless hurt to break.

"Shit." He raked a hand through his hair, then sat. d'Artagnan went over to Athos and made sure the former comte was not dying. All too soon they were all situated around the glowing remains of the fire again, this time in a different order. Aramis still faced Athos, whereas d'Artagnan was now closest to the brigand spy. In the end it was Athos who broke the silence with a dry chuckle.

"I deserved worse than that."

"You did", Aramis confirmed without much gusto. Exhaustion crept over him. Exhaustion at the situation, at the fight and at the impossible, incorrigible brother that had been caught in an even more impossible dilemma. "You probably have a concussion." His tone was carefully empty even as his fingers itched to take a closer look.

"Yeah, I noticed. Not your fault, though. My head got closely acquainted with a brick wall yesterday", Athos said without much concern. Constance grimaced at a sudden thought and cleared her throat delicately.

"I'm sorry to disrupt your moment", she announced, turning to face Athos. "You, monsieur, should be glad to even have a head that can hurt. Technically, I am obliged to cut it off and deliver it to His majesty, King Louis. He expressively asked for it to happen."

"What?", d'Artagnan sputtered. Next to him, Constance sighed, looking at the ground to avoid their astonished and appalled expressions. Aramis whirlpool of emotions bubbled up a tiny explosion of schadenfreude, which was soon drowned out by concern and worry after the first spray of confusion had settled.

"He wants the heads of those responsible for the kidnapping of his minister and the Captain of the Musketeers. That includes Athos." She was nibbling at her lip, conflicted and apologetic. Cluelessness was visible on her features. "What do we do now?"

"I hope them courtiers won't mind if his head is still attached to the body", Porthos argued. "We simply take him home and clear up this mess."

"It won't be simple", Aramis predicted grimly, knowing full well about his numerous enemies at the Queen's side. Nonetheless, Athos subsequent inquiry took him aback.

"Do you even want to fight that fight?"

"Of course we do", d'Artagnan said as if it was a no-brainer. "You're closer than blood. We'll always protect you." That statement, made with the imperturbable confidence that d'Artagnan oozed, actually made Aramis smile. It felt good to smile even if it hurt.

Aramis didn't contradict him and got up to collect his belongings. "We better hurry before the rumour mill of Paris starts running about this incident."

* * *

Therefore, they made good time on their way back even though they had to stop twice for Athos to disappear and relieve the contents of his stomach and because neither Aramis nor d'Artagnan were at their peak performance. As the city of Paris came into view, Aramis commanded most of the recruits to lead on and return to the Garrison alone. At the questioning glances from the d'Artagnans next to him, he explained that he'd rather give as little advance warning of his arrival as possible.

Ignoring Athos' approving nod, he asked Constance to hand them all richly embroidered cloaks. "I will go last as I don't see a chance not to be recognized. This is not true for the rest of you. For the next ten minutes, you are a delegation from Brandenburg-Prussia", he said. Behind him, Prothos groaned, muttering that he didn't know any Brandenburg-Prussians he could imitate.

He urged his light brown stallion Elba to remain in the shadows while the group approached the gates. Constance actually whipped out a not half bad string of mindless German chatter. However, she was still stopped by the guards and asked to explain their visit.

Relaying the question to d'Artagnan, Athos and Porthos, Athos answered with a thick accent that they were on their way to the castle.

"Please dismount and allow me to search your luggage. Just a precaution, messieurs and my lady", said the distrustful guard, who apparently believed that he was an inquisitor. Poor lad hadn't calculated Porthos' reaction, though. The general stared down at the guard from his considerable height, waving his fist through the air and thus elegantly exposed the gilded gauntlets he wore.

"Nein! Dies sind nicht meine Radieschen!", he shouted and nobody needed to understand the words to get the gist. Apparently, the mere suggestion to submit to a search was a great insult to the Brandenburg-Prussian noble.

"The king will hear of this!", Constance chimed in, this time in French. Frightened and most likely cursing his rotten luck, the guard shrank into the wall. "Welcome to Paris. Have a wonderful day", was all he managed to grind out between trembling lips.

Athos, wearing his best supercilious smirk, nodded once at the man as they passed through.

Smiling openly, Aramis followed the group and shushed the guard that was now trying to herald the reappearance of the first minister. They entered the city without any fanfare and Aramis silently congratulated himself as he brought his horse up next to Porthos and curiously wanted to know what he'd said to the guard to shut him up that effectively. The General grinned like a mischievous boy half his age.

"Those are not my radishes."

"Oh no you didn't", d'Artagnan obviously couldn't believe it. "Is that truly what he said?"

"Absolutely", Athos confirmed with a one-sided shrug. "It's the only phrase Porthos knows in almost any language."

"Lunatics", d'Artagnan teased, then immediately became serious when the street ahead was blocked by a group of soldiers. Behind them, passerbys vanished into alleys as a second group of armed men cut off their escape route.

"What is going on?", Aramis asked and in the same motion sat up straight on his horse and took off his hood. His nerves tingled when none of the men seemed surprised to see him and continued to advance on Athos in particular. Moreover, one of them carried a pair of thick iron shackles. "Olivier d'Athos! At the behest of King Louis and Queen Regent Anne of Austria, you are hereby under arrest for high treason. We have overwhelming evidence that he orchestrated a plot to kill the King!"

"Go with them. We'll figure this out", Aramis ordered. Some of the faces of the men were familiar enough that they had to be Blue Guard, which meant that this was a legitimate arrest. Watching them escort Athos away, Aramis wondered with mounting queasiness where it had all gone wrong.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:** Hey there. I know it's been forever and most of you have probably forgotten that this story - or me - existed, but here's a new chapter for those of your who have lots and lots of stamina and are still here. I truly apologize for the long wait, I simply have not had a calm moment to write for months. On a happier note, I'm now and aunt and my nephew is the cutest storm of activity you've ever seen.

Anyways, enough gushing about personal things. Let's get back to our Musketeers!  
 **Enjoy and** **review, if you like**!

* * *

 **Chapter 11**

Gallows should not look pretty, yet this one indisputably did. The shiny polish of newly cut wood and perfect angles suggested mastery of the craft and unsettled anyone who looked at it, as did the wine-red silk noose that swung innocently on a light breeze. There were fine winding stairs that would force the unfortunate prisoner to go around the construction twice before ascending to the delicate looking stool beneath the noose. Graceful, deceivingly pleasant to look at if one didn't know its lethal purpose. Or for whom it was intended.

Athos forced himself to study the gallows extensively and not look away as they rode past it. You couldn't miss the damn thing really, strategically placed as it was right next to the amphitheater that the late King had built during one of his misguided attempts to imitate Rome. Thus, nobody could enter the palace without noticing the gallows, which must have been the intention.

Moreover, Athos noticed that one could watch any hanging conveniently from the throne room without deigning to actually go outside and brave the unreliable weather.

"Damn those snobbish nobles" Athos whispered in a disgusted manner as he was lead past, which earned him a cuff around the head from one of his escorts. "Quiet!"

Fine, silence suited him just as well. Therefore, he didn't say a word as he like once before was shackled in the courtyard of the building and subsequently lead underground into the dimness of the Chatelet. Welcome back, Athos thought sarcastically while the guards opened a cell for him.

Surpisingly, they'd chosen one of the cleaner ones, meaning no visible rats and only a thin layer of slime and rot on the walls. There even was a bit of straw in one corner, although from the smell of it, Athos made sure to give it a wide berth. Even more interesting was that the Blue Guard left one man to stand watch at the entrance of the room, a young fellow with a friendly face who sat on a chair and managed to stay vigilant for about forty minutes before boredom got to him.

"Are you the Athos?", the blond boy said, then blushed like a maid and grinned. "My name's Abraham. Abe, if you like."

"Abe", Athos repeated flatly, uncertain what to think of the youth. He was different than d'Artagnan had been, different than Farouk. Sadness washed over him like rain and Athos sat on the ground, leaning against the stone wall between the straw and the guard.

"I am Athos." Abe could do with that whatever he wanted. And apparently, what Abe wanted was to talk. Athos sighed, fiddling with his shackles and reminded himself that not too long ago, he'd been the one tlaking on the other side of the bars with Aramis and d'Artagnan on the other side. Only now could he appreciate how degrading it could feel to be addressed casually through the bars of a prison cell. Perhaps it was fate, God's method to show him how wrong his actions had been.

"… I don't believe a word, by the way."

"Huh?" He'd been drifting off. Abe was still grinning, standing right in front of the iron bars with both his hands curled around them as if to bend them aside and free him. "They say you kidnapped the Dauphin, which is nonsense of course . Do you want to know how I know that?"

In fact, Athos did not, but he strongly suspected that he was about to be told nonetheless.

"Because you would never endanger Aramis. And d'Artagnan. Everyone knows Captain d'Artagnan was once your protégé – they're your brothers."

"They are", Athos admitted reluctantly, ashamed by the trust a total stranger placed in him. He was about to burst the man's bubble as multiple footsteps interrupted them and three men entered their field of vision. All of them were wearing clubs and nasty expressions, thus causing Athos' mind to jump to the right conclusion immediately. His assumptions were proven correct when one of them pushed the key into the lock of the cell, whereas the others made their weapons ready. This was about to get ugly.

"You better go now, Abe. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance." Chained as he was it was going to be a very one-sided fight, yet Athos doubted they would kill him. Most likely, some noble simply wanted to express his dislike of the traitor in a more palpable manner.

Abe fumbled around with his gear, glancing at Athos every so often until one of the thugs pushed the Guard into the wall.

"Hey", Athos protested and knocked his shackle against the iron between them with a disinterested expression, "Pick on someone your own size." Abe, meanwhile, let his gear drop to the floor in a heap and fled down the corridor with a last meaningful glance at his prisoner. Athos grinned inwardly. Of course he'd seen the keys his new friend had abandoned along with his other stuff.

This might be fun.

* * *

"What is the meaning of this?", Aramis demanded to know as he strode into the audience chamber of the palace. He'd collected his last reserves to appear energetic, severe and firm. Whether that worked, who knew? At least his posture was erect and even though his wardrobe might be dirty, his face was set with determination.

Aramis really hoped he was exuding the aura he wanted to and some of the schoolmaster display must have worked, because the nobles all diverted their attention to him and his entourage, d'Artagnan and Porthos. The former musketeers stopped right in the middle of the humongous room and it felt a lot like they were the main attraction in a circus.

"Where is the Queen Regent?", Aramis tried again, unaware that he was poking a beehive. The bees were certainly waking up, though, and the loud humming of conversation soon surrounded them on all sides like a swarm of insects.

"She's sick."

"Gravely ill."

"Unable to attend."

"So is little Louis, poor boy."

"Oh, what a tragedy!"

"Poor boy? Have some respect, comte. He's our king!"

"A sick king is no good for a kingdom."

"Respect!"

"Silence! Why on earth is there a gallows on the palace grounds?" From what he could filter out of the noise, Anne and Louis were unwell. Another catastrophe on top of the ever mounting pile of shit that was happening to them recently. But there was no obvious reason to build that… hideous thing next to the palace.

"We're hanging the traitor!"

"The traitor that tried to kill you and his majesty, poor boy."

"Yes! Tomorrow, and none too soon if you ask me."

"Nobody asked you, moron. But yes, Athos de la Fere shall be executed at dawn."

"A hanging, what an adventure!"

"Have some respect, that man used to be a musketeer!"

"So? Now he's all the more traitorous."

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

"Be quiet! Who sentenced Monsieur de la Fere to death?" Because unfortunately, there was nobody else they could be talking about. Was there no having a reasonable conversation with these people? Aramis only spoke to one elderly noble in the row closest to them on the left, yet everyone seemed to feel qualified to answer as loudly as they could.

"Nobody did."

"We did!"

"Everyone did."

"Everyone knows."

"They'll lynch him anyways."

"A lynching! That would be an adventure!"

"Respect!"

"No! Not for a man like him. A rat. Lower than even that."

"Is that possible?"

"A snail perhaps?"

"Oh, what a poor snail."

"Be silent! There hasn't been a trial, nobody sentenced anybody?" He was losing his mind, his posture, his patience. Every bee sting got a little deeper under his already fragile skin.

"No."

"Well, yes."

"But it doesn't matter."

"The king and his mother are gravely ill. Somebody has to make sure the realm doesn't succumb to chaos."

"Yes! That's right. A hanging there will be."

"The hangman has been payed already. As soon as the traitor Athos is found..."

"I heard he was brought to the Chatelet not an hour ago!"

"Really?"

"Perfect."

"Let the games begin!"

"There are no games, moron."

"But..."

"Have some respect!"

"Fuck your respect, I will have my games!"

"Everyone, shut up, will you?", Aramis growled, but his voice was lost in the ensuing mayhem. d'Artagnan watched the show with an expression close to awe as the cultivated men and even some fine ladies turned into a wild horde. Their shouting became snarls, fingers claws and fists. A punch was thrown.

Porthos and Aramis, a little more experienced in the not so courtly behavior of French Court without leadership, waited a few minutes until the first wave of violence and tempers had rushed by. Then Aramis marched up the dais and positioned himself on the highest step, just below the throne. d'Artagnan stayed close but didn't ascend from the floor of the audience chamber. Porthos followed Aramis a little further but remained on the first step, looking up at his longtime friend. The First Minister nodded with as much poise as he could muster, bedraggled and bone tired as they all were.

"If you would be so kind, mon ami?"

"Needs must", Porthos answered, then breathed in deeply and put two fingers each into his mouth. The resounding whistle cut through the arguing and scathing voices like a sword through butter. Gentlemen and gentlewomen fell silent and blinked up at the two warriors on the stage. Many glanced at themselves with shame, some other few with pride at their actions. Slowly, the crowd separated and settled. Instead, murmurs and evil whispers took hold like a vine which thrived to undermine any foundation of a stable house.

"What's he doing, up there?"

"He's not even of noble blood."

"Is that where he sees himself?"

"Oh, the audacity!"

"This is not right, no. Pretending he's king."

"He's just a musketeer."

"Somebody get him down from there."

"Impossible. Technically, it is his right."

"Right or no, it shan't be tolerated! I won't!"

"Oh? So you're going to go through the Captain of the Musketeers, General du Vallon and throttle the First Minister?"

"Hah! As if."

"Nobody would dare. He's a musketeer."

"Still not a king."

"Have some respect! In their majesties' absence, Minister d'Herblay is the highest ranking noble in attendance."

"Puh. So what?"

"He could behead you."

"Woe betide you who steps between a musketeer and his sworn brother."

"Brother?"

"Athos."

"The traitor?"

"The musketeer."

"They're one and the same person."

"Duh."

Aramis let them quibble amongst themselves for a while with the reduced volume, listening, asserting the temperature of the water before he dove in. Definitely hot waters since only about a third of the nobles expressed relief that somebody was back in charge. Very few men seemed to support Aramis as a person being here. And nobody at all spoke well of Athos.

In fact, the spinsters and the royal rumor mill of idleness had been dragging every little skeleton and spiderweb out of Athos' closet. Admittedly, there were a few, but most of the tales, which had most likely been exchanged between chocolates and whiskey a hundred times, were pure fabrication.

"Enough! I understand that there have been questions regarding Musketeer Athos' conduct. Those questions will all be answered. And in the Queen's absence, ..."

"He'll pardon his friend."

"Corruption!"

"That's ridiculous. They can't let a traitor live! What if he tries again?"

"Clearly, Aramis has lost his Spanish mind."

He heard the slurs, the distrust and suddenly realized that no, this was not a circus and he was not a schoolmaster. This was the Colosseum and he was a gladiator, albeit armed with words instead of swords. Nevertheless, disregard the peoples' will and he would loose his position. It might also cost his life. And Anne's. And Louis'. Despite this, the peoples' will currently lead to hanging Athos for crimes he had only partially committed. But how to explain, how to show them?

"In the Queen's absence, there shall still be a trial. A fair and impartial trial. We shall inform you all of the proceedings tomorrow", Aramis declared, very much aware that his speech elicited grumbles and glares everywhere. "Until then, anybody who tries to take the law into their own hands will loose their head. Is that understood?"

Silence. Now that they were supposed to speak, the bees had settled. One brave individual piped up: "We shall not interfere with a fair trial." The noble stepped forwards and smirked like a hyena. "However, in the name of the nobility of France, I must persist that should the traitor… should Athos de la Fere be found guilty, his punishment shall also be appropriate and swift."

Aramis swallowed forcefully, backed into a corner with very few ways out. He needed to strengthen his position and regain their respect if he was to be useful during the trial. Therefore, he looked at the troublemakers and then loudly proclaimed: "If Athos is found guilty, I will personally execute him for his crimes!"

After that announcement, he left as quickly as etiquette permitted. Limping, one hand pressed against the wall in order to steady himself, Aramis used the back door to vanish from the crowd and excused himself from his brothers. Every step felt like a marathon with the weight of responsibility he now carried on his shoulders, which made even breathing a chore.

How could he have said something such as that? How could he save Athos? What if he couldn't? Could he do it, kill his own mentor, friend and brother? Kin-killer, kin-slayer, curse you, curse you!

He stopped, lungs filled with doubts like water, causing him to cough and fight for air.

He'd been betrayed. He'd been beaten. He'd been abducted, imprisoned and tortured. He'd survived being suffocated and being burned alive and being drowned. And still he'd given his all to learn to trust Athos again. And finally, after searching his soul, he'd forgiven. Reached out again. Loved again. And it would nevertheless all be torn away at dawn. He couldn't take it, couldn't, couldn't, couldn't do anything.

Somewhere deep in the bowels of the unforgiving stone palace, Aramis d'Herblay cried. Bones cracking under the strain, he slid down the wall until he half sat, half lay on the cold marble tiles of the corridor. His whole body was racked with sobs, shoulders shaking and chest heaving. A cry of anguish crawled up his throat but he kept it inside even though it hurt. Aramis didn't make a sound, not a note of distress passed his lips.

His hands, loose on the cool stone, ached to curl into fists. He wanted to pummel the whole world into submission or at least throw a tantrum suitable for a Titan and bang his hands and feet against the ground uselessly like a baby. Yet he didn't move, afraid that his breakdown might be witnessed and the scandal would throw down the house of cards he'd built in the audience chamber just now.

Aramis moaned quietly. He felt empty. Rusted. Rotten. Like all the life had been sucked out of him by the bees outside and the trials he'd been forced to endure the last weeks. All Aramis wanted to do was lie here in the corner until time turned to dust.

An endless stream of heartbeats ticked by, uncounted. Tears dried to a desert of salt that tasted lonely on his tongue. He uncurled his fingers, ignored the bloody crescent moons they'd dug into his palms and placed them on the floor. Painstakingly, he returned to his feet. After another small eternity, he took a stumbling step, then another and another until the movement resembled a normal walk.

It was in this state that he reached the royal quarters of Queen Anne of Austria.

* * *

 **A/N:** I will definitely finish this story, so stay tuned! However, it might take some time since I have to finish some papers for college first. Business before pleasure and all that jazz.  
Please be patient and continue to be as awesome with your reviews as you are!


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